


Beautiful Summer

by Accidental_Ducky



Series: Beautiful Monsters [2]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: 1984
Genre: Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death(s), F/F, F/M, Recreational Drug Use, Temporary Character Death, Tyler has regrets™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29721882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidental_Ducky/pseuds/Accidental_Ducky
Summary: “Chet,” Tyler says, exasperated. “You can’t go around poking dead dudes withsticks.”
Relationships: Mentioned Montana Duke/OFC/Xavier Plympton, Montana Duke/Trevor Kirchner, Montana Duke/Xavier Plympton
Series: Beautiful Monsters [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/591268
Kudos: 2





	1. New Girl

Despite its popularity, Tyler isn't completely sold on aerobics. Sure, it's helping her lose weight and the music isn't bad when Xavier's picking, but thrusting her hips in the air like a bitch in heat just isn't her thing. Thrusting should be saved for the bedroom, not a gym. Still, at least the clothes are cute and it gives her an excuse to wear her Barbie crop top.

"On your side," Xavier calls. His class flips accordingly, mimicking the way he's raising one leg up and down. Tyler's thighs are starting to burn and her ribs ache a little, but she's too stubborn to stop now. "Good job, guys! Almost done." There are three more leg-lifts and Xavier calls it, Tyler dropping onto her stomach with a groan.

"You're such a sissy," Ellison says with a laugh. Tyler can't manage anything more than flipping the bird, muscles sore and skin sticky with sweat. "This was your idea, Ty."

"Oh, shut up," she moans.

"Come on." He grunts as he pulls her up, shouldering most of her weight for a moment as she gets her legs to cooperate. "I say we go back to running track."

"Sounds good." Her brother helps her to the entrance of the showers, making sure she has her balance before heading for the men's side. Tyler can hear running water and feel the steam, her aching muscles urging her forward despite how her legs have turned to jelly.

"You okay, Tyler," Montana calls. Tyler shakes her head, shucking her clothes and stepping into a shower stall. Cute clothes aren't enough of a bonus for this shit. "It gets easier the more you do it. I can swing by and help you if you want."

"Last time you swung by to help me with an exercise, we ended up wine drunk and crying because Harrison Ford doesn't know we exist." Montana hums, pinning her hair up as another woman steps into the stall separating them. She's pretty and willowy with long brown hair and Bambi eyes.

"Hi!" The woman jumps a little, glancing over at where Montana still has her chin hooked on the edge of the stall. "I'm not a lez, just friendly." That's a pretty bold way of not saying she's bi. Hell, the only straight person in their group is Ray and even that's up to debate. As Xavier is fond of saying, gays flock together.

"Don't scare off the new girl."

"Oh please, I'm not scary. Besides, she was eying Chet during the workout. Want us to introduce you?" The new girl turns her back on Montana only to find Tyler looking at her as well. That's why Tyler and Montana get along so well, they're snoops.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says with a nervous smile. She's got a nice smile, one Tyler's mother would have said was made for stardom; straight, white teeth and full lips the color of pink roses.

"You don't have to be embarrassed. The whole reason people come to Slimmercise class is to hook up. Just ask Tyler."

"It's true," Tyler agrees. "If it weren't for the short shorts and tight clothes, I'd still be at the track."

"And you have a rad bod. Definitely Chet's type." The new girl rinses and shuts off the water, wrapping her towel around herself. She's shy, but not self-conscious.

"That's not my scene," she says. She strides out of the shower and into the locker room, Montana letting out a faint sigh.

"The last American virgin." Tyler snorts, finishing her shower and cutting off the hot water. Her muscles protest the decision, but the ache is starting to fade into a more familiar throb. "Wait for me?"

"Duh," Tyler says. Montana finishes her shower quickly and they gather their clothes before moving to the locker room. Montana's eyes light up when she spots the new girl and moves in for the prowl. "Such a dip." Tyler shakes her head, stuffing her workout clothes into her gym bag and pulling on her street clothes. She prefers her shorts to the colorfully printed leotard, but she will admit that it makes her ass look good.

"I'm Brooke," the new girl's saying as Tyler sidles over.

"That's a cute name. Oh, this is Tyler." Montana pulls her over, wrapping an arm around her waist. "She's the best. You can tell her anything and she'll never spill your secrets. She usually runs track, but I convinced her to give aerobics a try."

"Biggest mistake of my life," Tyler adds. She squeals when Montana pinches her side, jumping away. "I promised Ellis that I'd buy him a smoothie for enduring this with me, so I'd better get going. He's the one with a car." She heads out into the main cool-down room, finding the guys gathered around the bar. Ellison is staring down at the small Styrofoam cup that Xavier hands him, lips pulled down into a severe frown.

"Don't be such a chicken," Xavier says. "It's good."

"I didn't even eat grass when I was two, X," Ellison replies. "I'm definitely not doing it in my twenties." He sets the cup aside, giving a small smile when Tyler knocks it into the trash. "You always know what I'm thinking."

"Don't tell anyone, but I'm a psychic," Tyler says in a dramatic whisper. "I can see all your thoughts." She turns to grin at Chet, winking. "The answer's yes, by the way. The new girl in class was totally daydreaming about your pecs."

"Good to know," Chet says with a satisfied smile.

"New girl better watch out," Xavier says. "Actually, all of us better stop going out at night for a while. Have you guys heard about the murderer targeting people in their homes?"

"I think I saw something on the news last night." Chet shrugs, glancing around at the others. Ellison and Tyler have made it a point not to watch the news, it's either depressing or fake or all of the above. Besides, most of the coverage has been focused on the upcoming Olympics.

"Well, the guy got another girl last night. She was stabbed, like, forty times and her throat was cut so badly that she was basically decapitated." Montana comes up behind him, wrapping an arm around Xavier's neck to pull him back so she can rest her chin on his shoulder.

"Describing your last date," she asks playfully.

"You're so funny. I don't know what we'd do without you." Montana laughs, letting go so Xavier can face her. "There was a murder a couple days ago in Glassell Park. My cousin works for LAPD Homicide, and they're convinced whoever did it is responsible for a bunch of other unsolved murders in town. Cops are calling him the Night Stalker."

"Wait," Tyler says, holding up a hand. "Is this the same cousin that sold you oregano instead of weed?"

"Yeah, but—"

"The same cousin that made you wet your bed when you were fourteen because he climbed in through your window when he was too drunk to make it to his house," Ray asks. Xavier rolls his eyes and the group takes that as a _yes_. "You can't trust anything that comes out of that dude's mouth. He's an idiot."

"No, he's not. I mean, he _is_ , but this is different. The _Los Angeles Times_ is saying it's a serial killer."

"I heard serial killers become more active in the summer months when it's hot," Brooke says, speaking up for the first time since she joined the group. Everyone turns to look at her with varying levels of appraisal. She doesn't seem put off at the attention, keeping her pretty head up high. "It's because people sleep with their windows open at night."

"Remind me to shut my window before I go to bed," Tyler mumbles.

"This is Brooke," Montana introduces. "Brooke, this is Xavier, Ray, Chet, and Ellison. Ellis is everyone's big brother, he likes to take care of us."

"Without me, you all would die from alcohol poisoning," Ellison remarks with a dry smile. "It's nice to meet you, Brooke."

"You, too," Brooke says. Tyler nudges Chet and he winks before striding over to Brooke, shaking her hand with the handsome smile that had all their college advisors fooled. "How do you all know each other?"

"We've collected each other over the years," Ray tells her. "Tyler and Ellison are a package deal, they moved here four years ago from some podunk town in Florida." Tyler and Ellison smile in unison, the same tilt to their lips and mischievous light in their eyes. "Xavier and Montana met in traffic and dated for a hot second."

"Met in traffic," Xavier snorts. He grabs his drink and they all move over to the couches, slumping against each other like a pack of wolves. "That's the polite way of saying that Montana made me miss an audition for one of the last episodes of Mash."

"You're an actor," Brooke asks.

"Yeah, but not one of the losers that are just happy to get one line on a soap opera. I'm a serious actor. I trained at Stella Adler. I'm method."

"Chet and I met at the gym," Ray says, him and Chet sharing a fist bump. I think I met Montana at a party in the hills at Justine Bateman's house. I met Ellison at college when he was using a library book to fend off a spider."

"He's my knight in shining Ralph Lauren," Ellison sighs, batting his lashes. "Tyler met Chet at a park, she was working as a nanny and he was very drunk and hanging off the monkey bars."

"You wouldn't believe how pissed this kid's parents were when they got home to find Chet passed out on their couch," Tyler says, laughing. "I got fired, but it was totally worth it. I can't stand those rich parents who don't have time for their kids."

"Tyler wants to be a social worker."

"As stubborn as she is, she'll get there," Xavier says, toasting her with his nasty grass shake. "Anyway, back to the murder spree going down. My cousin was saying they think that this guy's gonna go on a rampage like Son of Sam did in '78. I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't plan on being around when that happens."

"How are you gonna swing that? The pay here is garbage."

"I got a gig as a counselor at a summer camp a couple of hours from here. You guys should come, they're desperate for counselors and this shit looks great on a résumé."

"Nah, I leave my job for two months and I'll never get it back."

"Well, I'm in," Ray says. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow after class."

"Why not tonight?"

"Because no one's going to be there until tomorrow. What's up with you, anyway? You've been jumpy all week."

"I'm just ready to get out before the Olympic shit show starts. Los Angeles is about to descend into chaos. If we wait too long, the freeways are gonna be gridlocked. Besides, think of Chet. He doesn't need that shit."

"Fuck the IOC," Chet says, putting on a brave face as he slaps a hand down on Ray's knee. "I'm in."

"I'm between jobs and sick of looking at the beige walls of my apartment, so count me in," Tyler says. "Besides, this will be a great experience. If I can handle, like, thirty screaming kids at a camp, then I can handle anything." She high-fives Chet over the table, then leans back against Montana's side.

"I could teach those little dorks aerobics," Montana muses. "If nothing else, it'll wear them out so we can party at night. "What about you, Brooke? You should come so Tyler and I have another girl to hang out with." All eyes land on Brooke again and this time she wilts a little.

"It sounds like fun, but I'm taking classes at Santa Monica College," she says. "I'm gonna be a veterinary assistant."

"This is a riveting conversation," Ellison says. "It really is and I'm sure I'll regret leaving, but my darling baby sister has promised me a smoothie that doesn't have grass in it." He gets to his feet, pulling Tyler up and after him. "See y'all later."

"Bye, bumpkin," Montana calls. Ellison shows her the finger he's proudest of and then they're out of the gym. The sunlight is jarring after the soft light of the studio, Tyler letting out a groan and ducking her head. She forgot her shades at home and she's seriously regretting it.

"I can't believe you're just going to leave me here."

"I'm sure they have a phone at camp," Tyler shrugs. "I'll check in."

"You'd better. More than four days without a call and I'm gonna pay a visit." He's smiling, loving the chance he gets to play the protective brother. He's never been much of the protective type, he usually leaves that to his girlfriend. Samantha Crowe is a total badass and she's got a killer fashion sense.

"Do you think Mom and Dad will be mad at us for not coming home this summer?"

"Nah, they'll be fine. They got Uncle Jimmy to keep them distracted." Which is true, Uncle Jimmy and his brood are wild enough to keep everyone on their toes. She loves them, though, they always have a minute to spare if Tyler wants to talk. "Are you coming to the meeting tonight?"

"I can't. I have to pack and make a deal with the landlord before tomorrow. If he doesn't agree, then I'll probably put all my shit in storage and look for a new apartment when I get back from camp."

"You can always be my roommate, Ty."

"We haven't shared a living space in two years, Ellis. I'm pretty sure we'd murder each other."

"You're probably right. Mom always did have to pull us apart when we were kids." Their fights were legendary and also the reason that fireworks were banned in their neighborhood. "Well, be careful at camp. Lord knows you can't fight your way out of a paper sack."

"Oh please, this isn't a horror movie. The worst thing that could happen is me getting a splinter."


	2. Camp Redwood

Tyler wakes up to someone banging on her door, her sleep-slowed mind taking a minute to process that the banging sound was not, in fact, her alarm clock. "Come on, you lazy fuck! We don't have all day!" She's going to _murder_ Montana. Tyler kicks off her blankets and stomps her way into the living room, throwing the door open.

"I'm going to _murder_ you."

"No you won't." Montana blows past her into the apartment without a care in the world, leaving Tyler to shut the door behind her. "Only one bag?"

"The other one's in my room." Montana shoulders the duffle with an easy smile, practically floating in the goddamn air. "Stop being so chipper. No one should be chipper this early."

"Just hurry up and get your bag. Everyone's in Xavier's van." Tyler groans, shuffling into her room with Montana following. She doesn't hesitate to pull off her pajamas, used to Montana's presence after two years of friendship. She pulls on a jean skirt and a striped tee, then her brother's cardigan over that. "What about your hair?"

"I'm not struggling with it today. Deal with the curls." Normally Tyler's anal about her hair, preferring it in cute braids or even a bun rather than letting the corkscrew curls fly wildly.

"I love your curls. You're lucky, my hair's boring." Tyler slips her feet into her sandals and shoulders her second bag, pressing a kiss to Montana's cheek.

"Let's go before Ray comes to find us."

"Ugh, he's so jumpy. He just needs a stiff drink, a good fuck, and maybe some coke." Tyler grins, linking her arm with Montana's as they leave the crappy apartment behind. She had reached an agreement with her landlord the night before, but it was a tense thing and she'll definitely be looking for a new place as soon as she gets back.

The girls climb into the back of the van, tossing Tyler's bags to the side. There's nothing breakable in them, just clothes and a couple books to keep her from going bananas. All but Xavier are in the back, the drugs and booze already flowing.

"Hey, Brooke," Tyler greets as she settles down. Montana sits on the other side of Brooke, not trying to hide the way she's eyeing her. "Didn't think you were coming."

"The Night Stalker broke into my apartment last night," she says, voice tight with tears. Tyler can see them gathering in Brooke's eyes and decides this girl isn't what all of them think, there's a steel backbone that's just aching to be revealed. Given the right stimulus, the right trauma, Brooke could be beautiful. "He tried to kill me, but I fended him off long enough for my neighbor to call the cops."

"A little Jack might take the edge off," Ray says, offering his flask. Brooke takes a long pull from it, wincing at the burn.

"I still don't know how I'm alive." Xavier heads away from the bustle of the city, navigating expertly around traffic jams until the scenery starts to look more remote.

"Face it," Montana says," you're a badass."

"No, I'm not."

"Babe, you hit a serial killer with a _frying pan_. You're the type of girl men in poofy shirts write poetry about." Tyler nods her agreement, accepting the flask and taking her own drink. The burn of it is pleasant, enough to force the rest of the sleepy haze out of her mind.

"He said he was going to come back and kill me."

"Good thing you won't be home for the next two months," Tyler says. "He can stop by your place as much as he likes, but you're not going to be there. Eventually, he'll get bored and go murder another old lady."

"Ty's right," Montana agrees. "You're getting paid to swim and babysit some snot-nosed kids. You made the right choice." Montana's hand settles on Brooke's knee, fingers giving a light squeeze.

"That's right," Ray says. "We're gonna have a non-stop party in the woods. I got enough blow and weed to last the summer. Let's just hope we don't have to take any random drug tests." Chet scowls, not appreciating the way the others laugh.

"It's not fucking funny," he grumbles. "I barely had anything in my bloodstream, but those wastoids still kicked me out."

"Chet was disqualified from Team USA," Montana says when Brooke looks confused. "He peed a pharmacy, so they booted him from the Olympics."

"I didn't do anything! I worked my ass off for that spot." He yanks his top off and smacks a hand against his abs, not missing the way Brooke admires the hard muscles. "Have you ever seen a body like this?"

"Come on, Chet," Tyler drawls. "We all know that steroids don't fuck with your muscles, no matter how dreamy they are. You wanna prove your point, show us your dick." He throws his shirt at her head, laughing when she catches it and tosses it back. "Chicken."

"Not all of us like flashing bystanders."

"It was _one_ bystander and he didn't seem to mind it." Chet takes the vial of coke from Ray, snorting some before offering it to the girls. Tyler is the first to snatch it up, sprinkling some on the back of her hand and snorting the line in one smooth move. "Jesus."

"I take it Ray scored gold," Montana asks.

"It's better than that last batch." Tyler offers it to Brooke, but she shakes her head and leans back a little when Montana reaches across her to grab the vial. "It's definitely better than Folgers."

"Don't they drug test social workers," Brooke asks. She looks more concerned than judging and coke's never made Tyler paranoid.

"I'm not a social worker yet, hon. I'll clean up when it's time." She doubts it'll be easy and the withdrawals will kick her ass harder than her brother ever has, but she'll pull through. She's a woman, after all, they endure. "Besides, I have to finish some classes before I have to worry about all that."

"Yeah, Tyler doesn't get addicted easily," Chet says. "I've seen the girl use heroin for three weeks and then quit cold turkey cause she didn't like how drowsy it made her."

"I prefer my drugs to give me energy." She grins when Chet nudges her with his foot, nudging him back. They have an easy friendship, the type you read about in books and think is totally fake because there's no way you can click with people that fast. Sparks flew as soon as she poured a gallon of black coffee into Chet to sober him up.

"We slipped her Ritalin one day and she just organized my silverware drawer. Turns out she's got ADHD."

"I'm special." She winks at Brooke and grins when a pale blush spreads across her cheeks. She thinks Brooke will be a nice balance to their chaotic group, someone to keep all of them grounded. _The line to our kite_. Tyler hums and settles back in the seat, legs splayed out in front of her.

It's an hour and a half before they find any sign of civilization, a gas station that looks straight out of a horror flick. Xavier pulls up to the gas pumps and cuts the ignition, the radio cutting off Mötley Crüe. The others get out of the van to stretch their legs, Tyler shaking off the jittery sensation in her arms.

"I gotta take my meds when we get to camp."

"I'll remind you," Ray says, wrapping an arm around Tyler's shoulders. "What else am I good for these days?"

"You make a pretty good cocktail."

"True. Maybe I should quit the nursing home and move on to bartending. I bet I could make pretty good money if I had my shirt off." She snorts, playfully slapping his chest. "What? You don't think so?"

"If you take off your shirt around drunk people, they're gonna want you to give them a show." She smacks his ass as she moves away, laughing as he chases after her. Ray's pretty great, he's not emotionally constipated and he doesn't mind when Tyler crashes at his house because her neighbors are going at it like bunnies.

"Xavier," Montana calls. "What's taking you so long over there? We need to get going if we're gonna make it to Redwood before dark!"

"It's barely noon, you drama queen," he yells. The attendant, Ed, snaps his head up and around to look at Montana in dawning horror. He looks like someone just told him that there's a murderer in his backseat.

"Redwood," he asks.

"Yeah, Camp Redwood," Brooke nods. "We're all counselors there for the summer." The fear etches deep lines in Ed's face, making him look closer to fifty than forty and Tyler can feel dread pooling in her stomach. It's never good when gas station attendants react that way.

"Bad idea, kids. Your best bet is to head on back to the city because there's nothin' but death in that place. They never should'a opened it back up." Tyler shares a nervous smile with the others, moving closer to Ray again.

"Is Jason Voorhees hanging out there or something," she asks. The look Ed sends her is nothing short of scathing, Ray pushing her slightly behind him. Chet moves a bit so that he's between the other girls and Ed just in case the guy tries something.

"You shouldn't joke about it. What happened up there is worse than some dumb movie."

"Okay, that's enough ominous bullshit," Xavier says, striding over. "How much do we owe you?"

"Ten even." Ed screws the gas cap back on and the others take that chance to pile back into the van. Xavier hands Ed the cash out the window, watching boredly as Ed snatches it from between his fingers. "You're all gonna die." Tyler and Montana share an uncertain look, then Montana leans across Ray to lock the door. Xavier starts the van and peels out of the lot, Def Leppard drowning out the words bouncing around in all their heads.

"That guy was fucking creepy," Montana grumbles.

"Just forget about him," Chet says. "He was trying to scare us because he has nothing else going on in his life." He opens the glove compartment, pulling out a map to study as he talks. "Turn left up here, man." Xavier nods and does as instructed, humming along to the radio.

"Here," Ray says, digging out a baggie of weed and his bong. "Smoke a little of this and you'll be settled in no time." He fixes it up and passes it off to Montana, lighting it while she takes a hit. Tyler's never been a big fan of bongs, she prefers a good, old fashioned joint.

"Another turn up ahead."

"Nah, this way's much faster," Xavier says. "Besides, too many turns on the backroads will get us lost and I don't need that shit." The cloying scent of the weed gets his attention and he turns slightly in his seat. "I do need a little of that. Pass it up here, Montana."

"Shouldn't you pay attention to the road," Brooke asks. "Getting high while driving doesn't sound very smart."

"Xavier is the only one of us that drives better when he's high," Tyler assures her. "I'd trust him to drive my mom home through a blizzard without headlights as long as he's stoned. It keeps him nice and relaxed." Tyler leans back in her seat, nudging Brooke a little. "You should take a hit."

"No thanks. I promised my dad that I'd get through college before trying drugs." Tyler shrugs, not caring either way. Brooke can be the girl scout of the group, always prepared or whatever. As long as she doesn't stop Tyler from getting high, there won't be a problem. "Look out!" The van screeches to a stop, Tyler falling against Ray before she can stop herself.

"What the fuck was that about? Did we hit a deer?"

"It was a person!"

"We didn't _hit_ anything," Xavier snaps. "We _almost_ hit him, but I swerved out of the way." He throws the van into park, the first one out with Chet and the others following. A man around Tyler's age is sprawled out on the side of the road, his temple a little bloody but absent any signs of being hit by a car.

"We need to keep him warm," Ray says. All of their amusement has been drained away, even Xavier looks sober as Brooke rushes back to the van to grab a blanket. The man's eyes flutter open, the blue slightly glazed by shock as he gazes around.

"What's your name," Montana asks softly. The man shakes his head a little, trying to sit up only to fall back with a yell. Ray urges him back down with soothing noises that might be a reassurance, keeping the man down while Brooke covers him with a blanket. "It's alright, don't move."

"Look at his cuts and the dried blood," Xavier says, pointing as though the rest of them are blind. "Those aren't from the van. Those are old, so he's been out here a while." Tyler and Brooke both send him a scathing look and he rolls his eyes. "Fine, we'll take him to the camp with us. If nothing else, I'm sure they have a phone so we can call him an ambulance. Before that, though, let's get our stories straight—"

"We didn't hit him," Tyler interrupts. "You swerved. Happy now? Can we at least pretend to be good people?"

"Yeah, let's move him." They go to shift him up when he lashes out, grabbing Brooke's wrist tight enough to bruise. The glaze leaves his eyes as he becomes lucid, almost manic in the way he bares his teeth.

"I tried," he says in a wavering voice. "I _tried_ , I swear."

"We believe you," Brooke says. Satisfied or exhausted, the man's hand drops back to his side and he goes lax against the hot asphalt. "Oh, shit…."

"He's probably dehydrated," Ray says, cradling the man's head. "Come on, they might have an IV of fluids at the camp." All but Xavier work to get the man up, shuffling like a group of crabs towards the van. "Where should we put him?"

"The floor," Chet grunts. "Otherwise he might roll off the couch during one of X's turns." Xavier gives a sarcastic laugh from the driver's seat, flipping them all the bird. "A little bit higher on your end, Ty." Tyler groans and lifts the guy's legs a little higher, letting out a relieved noise when they finally have him inside. "He was heavy for a skinny guy."

"Wiry muscles." They clamber back into the van, Chet closing the door behind them before joining Xavier up front. The rest of the drive is spent in a tense silence, the radio cutting out after they pass under the camp sign. The road follows a slow curve along a hill, a lake glimmering on their left while the hill and its various trees blot out the sunlight on the right. At the end of the road is the camp proper, a neat little place that sits a few yards from the lake.

"Oh, I can't wait to swim," Tyler says.

"You have the emotional span of a teaspoon," Ray says dryly.

"I'm an optimist, Ray. Look on the bright side or don't look at all." He scoffs, turning his stare back to the man. "We should give him a name. I vote we call him Greg."

"Why Greg?"

"Dunno, he just looks like a Greg." The van comes to a stop in an open area, a couple other cars a few feet away. On the right, where the hill softened into flat land perfect for the neat little cabins, a blonde woman is chopping up firewood. "Jesus, you don't think she'll make us do that, do you? I just got my nails done."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to avoid manual labor," Montana laughs. Ray flings the door open and jumps down, helping the others out and over Greg.

"Welcome to Camp Redwood," Blonde Lumberjack greets. She sets the ax aside and comes forward, dressed head-to-toe in khaki. The shorts are loose and stop above her knees, a pair of tube socks starting just under her knees and ending beneath a sensible pair of boots; above all of that is a modest button-down and a khaki vest, the outfit all tied together with a pair of glasses. "I'm Margaret Booth, the owner."

"Boss lady chopping her own wood. Choice."

"Well, we'll all have to wear multiple hats. We're short-staffed and the kids arrive in the morning."

"I can handle arts and crafts for the little ones," Tyler offers. "Supervise the lake, that sort of thing." She doesn't flash her manicure, but she does make sure carrying Greg didn't do any damage to it. She's not vain by nature, but she likes her nails to be perfect.

"Speaking of multiple hats, is one of yours a nurse's cap," Brooke asks, still standing next to the van. "We kind of have a situation over here." Margaret strides forward with a purposeful walk that has the others scrambling to get out of her way. Tyler's high school principal had that same walk mastered and she has a pavlovian response to duck behind tall people.

"What happened to him," she asks, stopping next to Brooke.

"We found him like this on the side of the road," Xavier lies. "He's really busted up, huh? Must have been out here for a few days." Margaret barely spares Xavier a look, which is good considering his face does this weird pinched expression when he lies.

"Let's get him to the infirmary." Margaret steps aside and Tyler pouts when she realizes she'll have to help again. The group, minus Xavier and Margaret, do their strange little crab walk along a path lined with wildflowers and small logs until they reach a little cabin with _Infirmary_ branded into a wooden sign over the door. Tyler kicks at the bottom of the door until a woman opens it and steps aside with a shocked gasp.

"What the hell happened," she demands, following them over to a bed. They don't drop Greg, but it's a close thing as they set him down on the cot. The nurse that had opened the door grabs a stethoscope and bends over him without waiting on an answer, giving Tyler time to study her. She's older, maybe mid-thirties if Tyler had to guess, her dark hair piled up on top of her head in a messy bun and her sharp lips pressed into a thin line.

"Is he gonna be okay," Chet asks, looking genuinely concerned. For all his tough guy bravado, he's a softie inside.

"He probably went for a hike and got lost," the nurse says, working on Greg's blood pressure next. "My guess is that he got dehydrated and had a fall. None of these sores look too serious, a little Neosporin and some water and he'll be fine." She rises from her seat and takes the blood pressure cuff with her to the other side of the room. The group turns as one to watch her progress as she opens a cabinet and takes out an IV set.

"That happen often around here?"

"More than you'd think. These woods are deep and a lot of people end up worse off than your friend here. Some die of hypothermia and others fall into ravines. He's lucky you all found him." She grabs a wire hanger and hangs it from a metal pole, using the curved end to support the bag of fluids.

"Is he gonna die," Ray asks. The nurse smiles over at him, warm and friendly like every nurse should be. Tyler would trust that smile with her life should the occasion call for it.

"Not on my watch. I work the ER at Hawthorne Hospital when I'm not here, so I've seen a lot worse than this." She settles back down on the stool, feeling around the crook of Greg's elbow before slipping the needle in and getting the fluids going.

"Why don't we let Rita do her job while I give you all a tour," Margaret suggests, though her tone makes it sound more like a demand. "Come on." The others share a look before rising from their respective places, following Margaret back out into the softening sunshine. It's late afternoon now and dark will soon fall over the valley.

"I'll bet you can see the stars really well here," Tyler murmurs, looking up to the cloudless, blue sky. Xavier smiles, bumping her with his arm as he passes.

"We have canoes and rowboats." Margaret leads them over to a set of stone steps built into the hillside that leads down to the lake. "All children must have a buddy before they go into the water. The lake is allegedly bottomless, and drowning is the number one cause of death for US campers."

"What's second," Xavier asks.

"Pre-marital sex," Tyler says matter-of-factly. Margaret narrows her eyes at them, then stalks away without looking to see if they're following.

"The arts and crafts will be done outside on the good days and in the mess hall on rainy ones," Margaret continues. "There's a map of the camp near the payphone if you all need it. This way." They follow another path that hugs the lake and then around back to the main part, a pick-up parked in front of one of the larger cabins. "This is Chef Bertie, a Camp Redwood veteran." Xavier leans against the truck, staring at Bertie over his sunglasses and then at the others.

"Dibs," he says, grinning.

Bertie, a fifty year old who's seen some shit, gives him a shit-eating grin in return and says," You wouldn't know what to do with it if you got it, handsome." He looks downright scandalized and that's enough to set the others giggling, Montana and Tyler leaning against Brooke to stay upright. "Put those scrawny arms to work and help a lady fill her pantry." Bertie passes him a crate filled with egg cartons and Xavier's still too shocked to resist. "Go on, there's plenty of crates for all of you."

"Yeah, Chet," Montana says. "Show us those muscles at work." He gives her a fond smile, he and Ray each taking a crate and heading into the mess hall.

"Chef Bertie worked here when I was a counselor," Margaret says, watching the boys go. She doesn't look at their asses or their flexing muscles, simply making sure they don't drop the crates. Tyler bets she's some flavor of gay. "You don't know how happy I was that she came back."

"I have a lot of good memories of this place," Bertie says. She's got a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, the tip glowing orange as she takes a drag off it. "The fresh air up here is magical first thing in the morning. I was always sorry that one bad apple ruined it for everyone."

"Can you handle the rest of this, Bertie? I want to show them the rest of the camp before it gets too dark."

"Sure thing, sweetheart." They wait for the guys to rejoin them and then they're off again, moving down yet another path toward the showers. They've got four walls, but there's no roof or stalls to keep everyone separate. Tyler isn't shy about her body, but showering is meant to be a private affair.

"Girls shower in the mornings and boys shower at night, the same schedule applies to counselors. I suggest you all get up here before the kids do." Margaret doesn't pause to let them explore, continuing forward through the showers and out a second door onto another path. This one winds away from the lake, up a steep hill to another clearing with a couple of cabins and a fire pit. "This is the girls' cabin."

"Not exactly spacious, is it," Tyler asks, looking around. There are two single beds meant for the counselors and then a pair of bunk beds for the kids. There's another cabin next door that might be more space for campers or just storage. Either way, Tyler's calling dibs if it means sleeping alone.

"If you want spacious, then you should go back to the city and book a suite at the Four Seasons." Margaret marches out of the cabin again and around it, following the path deeper into the woods a good half a mile away to yet another cabin. This one is identical to the girls' cabin, same layout and everything. "This is the boy's cabin. Girls are red, boys are blue, don't even try to make purple."

"Well, shit, Ty, there goes our summer plans," Chet laughs, nudging her. Margaret pauses with the cabin's backdoor open, glaring over at the pair as if they had personally shoved her grandmother into traffic. Chet wilts under that glare, but Tyler's Aunt Dot is far more fierce than this woman could ever be. "I… I was joking?" Margaret lets out a soft _humph_ , and continues out onto the back deck.

"I'm not an idiot," she says. "I'm not banning self-abuse, though the Lord does frown on it."

"It's 1984, Margaret," Xavier drawls. "You ever hear of the sexual revolution? Sex won." Margaret develops a pinched expression as though she had just bitten into a sour lemon.

"I am aware of the decadence of this generation; womens' underwear that shows the buttocks, pornography in your own home, Van Halen. I have been fighting the Lord's fight against our world's filth since you all were in diapers. Charles Keating is a dear friend."

"Who's Charles Keating," Chet asks, bending so that he can whisper in Tyler's ear.

"I think he was on SNL," she replies.

"No, that was Michael Keaton."

"Maybe he changed his name."

"... And that is why, despite grieving my dear husband's death," Margaret's saying," I took a small portion of the large fortune he left me to buy this camp and create a safe, pure, and Godly place for the children of this country to escape to for the summer. It is a dream come true. Now, there aren't many rules, but I expect every one of you to follow them without exception." Margaret stalks off after that, leaving them to their own devices.

"Did she ever actually tell us the rules," Ray asks, looking to the others.

"No fucking each other," Chet says. "And all morning showers are for the girls, so we'll just have to rub one out until it's dark enough for a cold shower."

"I was joking about the whole no pre-marital sex thing earlier," Tyler sighs. "You think if we break that rule, Margaret will put on a hockey mask and hunt us down?"

"We could outrun her." Tyler raises her brows as she looks at Chet. He shrugs when he meets her gaze, smiling. "All murderers have a theme song, so we'll just listen for the sound of small children singing This Little Light of Mine."

"It's gonna be dark soon," Montana says, looking up at the slowly darkening sky. "I say we bring our shit to the cabins and then light a fire."


	3. Campfire Tales

It's still warm out even after dark and Tyler's already shed the borrowed cardigan. Still, you can't exactly have a camp without a campfire and marshmallows, it's a tradition that no one seems ready to break. It'd be like going to a baseball game and not eating a hot dog or tripping a complete stranger.

"You can puff-puff-pass that right on by me," Rita says when Xavier offers her a joint. "The only thing I smoke is Marlboro Reds." She rises and snatches Ray's cigarette just to prove her point, winking at Ray before returning to her seat. The joint comes around the fire, Tyler taking a long drag before passing it to Brooke.

"Those things'll kill ya," Xavier says, smiling.

"We all gotta die sometime. I might as well be doing what I love when it happens."

"In that case, I hope I'm in post-orgasmic bliss on silk sheets," Tyler says, laughing when Ray nudges her. Rita laughs as well, but she sobers a little as she looks around their circle.

"Any of you been camp counselors before?" There's a murmur of negatories and Rita looks like she'd expected the answer. She doesn't look stressed or worried, cool as a cucumber as she takes a drag of her cigarette. "I couldn't stand being in that city a moment longer. Not with that murderer on the loose."

"He attacked me in my apartment," Brooke says after a beat. She's got her hands primly on her knees, her posture as perfect as if she had books balanced on her head. "He said he'd come after me." Tyler rolls her eyes, but she doesn't say anything. She tends to get mean when she's high. Well, meaner than usual.

"Take a pill, Brooke," Montana says. She'd just taken a hit and smoke rolls off her tongue like fog, thick and curling as it drifts up and mingles with the smoke from the campfire. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you here. We're practically in the middle of nowhere."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Rita says with a note of warning. "Fourteen or so years ago, something awful happened here and it forced the camp to shut down."

"Jesus, bonafide campfire tales," Tyler giggles. "What's next? Is some guy gonna come running out of the woods with a hook in his hand?" She laughs again and she can't seem to stop it from bubbling out. "I'm sorry, please continue with your tale of woe."

"It's not some stupid campfire story. We're all new when it comes to working at a summer camp, but Margaret didn't even bother to check my references. She's desperate for help and everyone around here seems desperate to avoid this place. Don't you wanna know why?"

"My bet's on homicidal rampage."

"You'd win it." Tyler's giggles dry up at that, sitting up a little straighter on the makeshift seat. "This is the sight of the worst summer camp massacre of all time. His name was Benjamin Richter, but everybody called him Mister Jingles." She stands, all eyes following her. "Richter was stationed in Saigon during the Vietnam war, and that's where he found his calling."

"Interior decorating," Ray says sagely.

"I'm serious. The guy had the highest kill rate in his company. He even went back for a second tour after he was wounded. He liked killing, he was good at it. He had a nasty habit of collecting trophies from his enemies; he cut off their ears and strung them into a necklace."

"Gnarly," Chet says in disgust.

"When his superiors found out about it, they gave him a dishonorable discharge. Richter came home with nothing and no positive references. The only job he was able to get was right here in Camp Redwood. Nobody knows exactly why he snapped, but he did. One random night, Mister Jingles grabs a knife and slaughters an entire cabin. Ten victims in all."

"You're wrong." Tyler jumps and nearly falls off the stump in her haste to turn around. Margaret joins them with her determined stride, the firelight flickering eerily against her glasses. "If you're gonna tell a story, tell it right," she says. She glances over at Ray, snatching his flask out of his hand and dumping the whiskey out. "Alcohol is not allowed and neither are those funny-smelling cigarettes. You can either put it out yourself or I can toss it."

"Jesus, chill out," Xavier grumbles. He stores the joint in an old Sucrets tin, tucking it away in his jacket pocket.

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain around me. It's not appropriate."

"Are you telling us that there wasn't a murder here?"

"No, there was, but only nine people died instead of Rita's ten." Margaret turns her head and pulls back the curtain of her blonde hair, revealing puckered scar tissue where her left ear used to be. The others wince back in revulsion, but a crease appears between Tyler's brows. _How the fuck are her glasses staying on when she's minus an ear?_

"Gnarly," Chet repeats. Margaret moves around the group, taking up a seat between Chet and Montana.

"I don't usually show that off, but I figured you guys are owed the truth since you're all helping me start this camp." She pauses, looking at the fire instead of at the others. "I was asleep when I heard it. It was the sound of his keys jingling. I opened my eyes a second before I felt the blade in my stomach, but I knew I was going to die here."

"Did you? Are you a ghost right now?"

"I think those Cloves you were smoking went to your brain." Chet flushes and hunches his shoulders, Margaret waiting a moment before continuing. "I'm still alive because a miracle happened. I saw a bubble rising to the surface, and I had this powerful urge to follow it up into the light."

"Don't go in the light…." Margaret digs an elbow into Chet's side to shut him up. While Tyler gets mean when she's high, Chet gets a bit slow on the uptake.

"I was so scared and I knew I had to stay still or I really would die, then the light became so bright. I was lost in it, in the warmth and peace. It was Jesus. I had known Him my whole life, but I truly met Him that night. I floated out of my body, held aloft by the wings of an angel." Sounds more like an out-of-body experience if you ask Tyler. "I watched Jingles cut off my ear and I gave him nothing, not a twitch or a sound to show him that I was still alive. That's how I managed to survive, through the grace of God and His mercy."

"What happened to Mister Jingles," Brooke asks. Unease has settled around the group, all the rowdiness smothered. There's a feeling of being watched, eyes boring a hole in the back of Tyler's neck, but she doesn't turn around to find out if that feeling is real or just something conjured.

"He was put on trial with me as the star witness. The jury only took an hour to find him guilty, and I thought for sure that would be the end of it." Margaret's lips press together, some of the color going out of them. "I know now that I'll never escape him or what he did that night. That's why I reopened this camp. I'm going to take all of my darkest memories and turn them into something bright and happy."

"That's heavy," Chet says, shaking his head. Tyler has to bite her cheek to keep the giggles at bay. Margaret rises from the stump she'd claimed, smoothing out any wrinkles in her shorts.

"The kids will be here bright and early in the morning, so there will be no more talking about what happened on that horrible night. There's no need to scare the kids." She stalks off and everyone watches her go with varying expressions of relief. Margaret is a weird chick and Tyler finds herself hoping that they don't cross paths often.

"I think I'm gonna go check on Greg," Brooke says, rising once Margaret is out of sight. "Wanna come with me, Rita?" Rita nods and stands up as well.

"Might as well," she sighs. "I've got to write up a report on him anyway." They move away together and Tyler notes that they're careful not to walk too fast in case they come across Margaret. The rest of the group all share a look and then they're moving in tandem, dousing the fire and shuffling off to the girls' cabin.

They spread out as well as they can, Tyler ending up on the rug next to Xavier with her back against a bed frame. It's not the most comfortable spot in the room, but she can stretch her legs and take the joint as soon as Xavier gets through rolling it. Brooke rejoins them a moment later, taking up a seat on the leather couch on Tyler's right.

"How was Greg," Montana asks.

"Not great," Brooke says. She has to turn with her arm on the back of the couch in order to face them, her eyes wide like a newborn woodland creature. Tyler thinks of Bambi, the way his eyes had been so innocent right up until someone shot his mother. She wonders what Brooke would look like after trauma. "He was yelling that we're all in danger. Rita had to give him a sedative."

"We got him help, so our karma should be good."

"He kept insisting that something bad was going to happen. Maybe he's, like, psychic or something. Or maybe he's so banged up because he was chased by some bad dudes and we led them right to camp." Tyler opens her mouth to make Brooke shut up, but freezes halfway through the action when loud footsteps hit the porch. The heavy steps grow louder, closer, until they stop right outside the cabin door.

"I'm too cute to die," Tyler gasps. The door flies open and the group flies into action, hiding the drugs and attempting to hide the booze. Instead of Margaret, though, a tall man is standing in the doorway; well-muscled in all the best places, his mustache full and just as dark as his hair. "Never mind, he can kill me."

"I'm not in the killing business," the man says with a wry smile. "I'm actually the activities director." He kicks the door shut behind him and moves past the group to the other side of the room to drop the six-pack of beer down into the cooler. "I'm Trevor, by the way."

"I'm single."

"And gay," Xavier adds with raised brows.

"Bi," Montana corrects. Her eyes are glued to the curve of Trevor's ass in his shorts, then to something much larger when he turns to face them again. The guy would make a stallion overcompensate. "You're not going to make us split up, are you?"

"Fuck no," Trevor laughs. "Margaret needs a good fucking to lighten her up. Between you and me, I bet myself fifty bucks that I'd bang her by the end of the summer." Tyler and Chet share a look, their brows furrowed. How the fuck do you bet yourself?

"Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"I teach aerobics in Marina del Rey. My classes can get pretty hot, so maybe you've taken a few of them. Also you can see me at the end of the Three's Company opening credits. They shot it right next to my condo."

"Hold on," Chet says, holding up a hand. "How do you make a bet with yourself? That makes zero sense, dude."

"Wait, I got it," Montana says, snapping her fingers. "You were in the Jane Fonda workout video!" Tyler has a vague idea of the tape she's talking about, it sits in a place of honor right next to Montana's vibrator and her autographed picture of Rob Lowe.

"That's right," Trevor says, the words ghosting out on a sigh. "I was right next to Jane in the front row in the original tape. It would have been my big break, but they didn't end up sending it out. When they tested it with an audience, they realized I was pulling focus from Jane." Trevor walks past the group again, putting one leg up on a trunk to really showcase the front of his shorts. "Well, a certain part of me was."

"That thing was flopping around like a baby elephant's trunk." There's admiration in Montana's voice, her eyes hungrily taking him in. He takes a hit off their bong, letting the smoke out slowly. It hangs thick in the air, curling fingers as though daring them each to smoke.

"They had to recast and reshoot. You must have seen one of those bootleg VHS tapes that's been floating around."

"First thing I ever masturbated to."

"She practically worships that thing," Tyler says, grinning. She cuts her eyes to Trevor, the grin curling into a smirk. "Well, two things, I suppose. You're on her bucket list." Montana stands slowly, brushing the pale wisps of hair over her shoulder.

"It's pretty hot in here. Anyone wanna join me for a dip in the lake?"

"I'll go," Chet says, raising his hand. Without looking at him, Tyler throws a pillow at his head. "Ow! You hit my eye!" Montana kicks at him lightly as she passes, then she and Trevor have disappeared. "Oh, she wants to fuck him in the lake."

"You're so dense," Xavier laughs.

"Seriously, though, how the hell do you make a bet with yourself? I mean, I used to tell myself that I could have a cookie after I read a chapter in my textbook, but that never worked. Why should I wait? The cookie was right there."

"Somebody say something about cookies," Rita asks as she comes inside. "I could go for one."

"No, we were talking about how to make bets with yourself." She pauses on the way to the couch, raising her brows.

"I take it that you've met Trevor."

"He's a weird guy, right?"

"Weird, but harmless." She drops down on the couch near Brooke, gesturing at the TV. "I think they're replaying the opening of the Olympics. It's not much, but it's better entertainment than charades."

"He's so fucking weird. Ty, how do you bet yourself?"

"You don't," Tyler says, taking pity on him. "Ray, make with the TV." Ray stands and shuffles over to the TV, flicking it on and fiddling with the rabbit ears while everyone else makes themselves comfortable. Xavier stretches out on the bunk closest to the TV and Tyler sits behind him, propping her legs on Xavier's hip.

Thunder rumbles overhead and Tyler glances up on instinct, eyes trailing over the ridges of the top bunk. Another boom has Trevor and Montana sprinting back into the cabin, desperately pulling their clothes on along the way.

"What's the matter, you two," Ray teases. "Scared of a little thunder?"

"I don't feel like being electrocuted before I get my orgasm," Montana says. She drags a beanbag chair up between Xavier's bunk and the couch, dropping down onto it with a satisfied huff. Trevor sits down between Brooke and Rita, draping his arms over the back of the couch.

"What are we watching," Trevor asks.

"Olympics," Ray says. He fiddles a little more and the static clears, giving them a decent enough view of the Memorial Coliseum. Chet leans his arms against his thighs, letting his head drop slightly between his shoulders. He looks like the definition of a kicked puppy and a pang of sympathy twists through Tyler's chest.

"This is bogus," he grumbles. "I'm one of the best athletes in LA, I should be in the Parade of Nations."

"Oh please," Rita scoffs. "The only thing you're missing out on are strained muscles, disappointment, and the fuck fest." A few of the group let out a chorus of laughter like some pre-recorded track for a TV show, but Tyler remains silent as she gazes over at her friend. "I tell you what, athletes are some of the biggest skanks I've ever met."

"Met a lot of them, huh," Ray asks, grinning.

"My fair share. They hand out twenty-thousand condoms at the Olympics." Tyler snorts at that. She's got her back pressed against the wall, shifting her legs a little so she can slouch, hooking her knees further over the point of Xavier's hip. The boy is basically skin and bone and she has to fight all those southern instincts drilled into her head that say she should plump him up a little.

"I heard that the male athletes outnumber the females five to one," Brooke says, glancing over her shoulder at Chet. She's doing her best to make him feel better about losing out, but Chet's scowl only deepens. "That's some steep competition."

"What the fuck would you know about it," Chet snaps.

"Jesus," Ray groans. "Would you take a pill? She was just trying to make you feel better. Stop being such a dick." Chet stands and throws a crushed beer can at him, Ray bringing up a hand to keep from getting hit in the face. A deep cut opens up along the heel of his palm and the guilt is instant in the way Chet hunches his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, man, I didn't mean to—"

"Fuck off!"

"Nurse Rita, a little first aid?"

"Nurse Rita is off duty," Rita says, gesturing at the door with her beer bottle. "Feel free to hike to my office and find yourself a band-aid," Ray mutters a curse under his breath and then he's storming out, shouldering his way past Chet with unnecessary force. The door bangs shut behind him, letting in little splatters of rain.

"I'll go help him," Brooke says, rising. Tyler is pretty sure she's leaving so she can get away from the constant leer Trevor's got going.

"Smooth move, Exlax," Xavier mutters. Once the chatter dies down again, they focus back on the TV. The picture is a little grainy, but it's better than the old black and white number Tyler has in her apartment. Gina Hemphill comes running around a smooth curve as Chet and Montana change places, Chet going to the bean bag chair while Montana cozies up next to Trevor.

"Remind me again why the Olympics are entertaining," Tyler asks, the Florida drawl more pronounced. Between the weed and the booze, she's got a nice buzz going which means she sounds more like the hick she is rather than a native Californian. If Xavier wasn't so stoned, he'd probably make fun of the accent.

"Because it's sports."

"None of us are athletes except the boy wonder over there." She gestures vaguely in Chet's direction with her entire hand, too lazy to narrow the gesture down to just one finger. "So why are we watching this?"

"Because we're proud Americans or some shit."

"We can judge the contestants whenever they fail to complete super hard shit," Montana says, grinning at Tyler over her shoulder. "You love judging people, Ty."

"A very good point," Tyler agrees, holding up her beer. She'd honestly rather have something a little more fruity, but beggars can't be choosers. Ray comes back in as the torch is passed to Rafer, settling down on the bunk Chet had abandoned. He's got his hand patched up, but Brooke is nowhere to be found. Tyler's too high to really care about their new stray. "What if the torch goes out while they run?"

"I'm sure someone out there has a lighter." Rafer's just crested the twenty-five steps and is about to light the torch when Brooke comes stumbling into the cabin, covered in mud and screaming.

"He's gonna kill me," she screams, slamming the door shut and sliding the lock home. "He's coming!" Everyone's standing in a matter of seconds, which is frankly amazing when you take in the fact that none of them are sober. Still, as they get to their feet, Brooke has already crossed the room and locked the back door.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Mister Jingles!"

"Nope," Tyler says, dropping back onto the lumpy mattress. "I'm too stoned to outrun a serial killer. Just tell him where I am and to make it fast." She flops onto her back, grinning lazily up at the others. Brooke doesn't look half so amused, her dark hair matted with rainwater and thick mud.

"I saw him, I swear! The hood of his raincoat was up so I couldn't see his face, but I could hear his keys as he chased me!" The boys seem a little soberer now, picking up flashlights and a few things that'll bludgeon just about anyone. "No, he's right outside!" The boys head out into the storm without another look back, ready to do some damage.

"They're gonna get themselves killed," Montana sighs.

"Remember that time Chet screamed and climbed my back because he saw a grasshopper," Tyler asks. All amusement has drained out of her and her high is starting to mellow out back into cold reality. "Come on, let's go rescue them."

"So much for dying post-orgasm." Montana helps Tyler stand up and they join the boys out on the front porch, the beam of Trevor's light barely piercing the thick darkness. "I thought Jingles was supposed to be right outside."

"I don't see anyone," Trevor shrugs. "I thought this guy's been locked up since the seventies."

"I'm not lying," Brooke says, voice shaky. "If you want proof, just go check out the infirmary! He murdered Greg and he cut off his ear." With a resigned sigh, Tyler pulls on her brother's cardigan and reluctantly follows the others into the night. The rain is cold even through the thick yarn of the cardigan, sharp little pinpricks that make her want to scream bloody murder.

They basically run the trail between the cabin and the infirmary, but they slow to a creep as Rita opens the door. Tyler wraps her fingers tightly around the thick tree branch she'd picked up on the way here, the bark rough on her palms, but it's a comforting weight. They creep slowly through the infirmary until they stop in front of a closed door. On the other side would be a body if Brooke is telling the truth.

"Anybody feel like volunteering," Rita asks. "Maybe a big, strong man?" She sends Trevor a pointed look.

"I'm a feminist," Trevor says. "Men and women should have equal opportunity to be hacked to pieces in a summer camp." Rita scoffs, stepping forward to push the door open. She's the first inside, peering behind the door where Greg is supposed to be hanging.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. There ain't nothing here." Everyone else shoulders their way into the room, but there's not so much as a drop of blood to be found. Tyler entertains the idea of hanging Brooke up there, but that would probably traumatize some ten year old with a scraped knee tomorrow.

"Hey, Brooke," Montana says, smirking. "I found your raincoat killer." She's pointing her flashlight at the raincoat hanging from the coat rack and Tyler can't quite bite back her own cruel smile.

"I'm not imagining what happened to me," Brooke protests.

"Face it, Brooke, you're just as stoned as the rest of us. How many hits did you take?"

"None!"

"Then you must have the mother of all contact highs," Ray shrugs. Brooke turns and storms back into the hall, the others trailing after her. Tyler's about to tell Brooke that paranoia isn't uncommon, but the words stick in her throat when a lightning strike illuminates a raincoat-wearing figure just past the screen door. She jumps into Trevor's arms like Scooby-Doo, but then she realizes that the figure outside is just Margaret.

"What in Heaven's name is going on here," she demands as she comes inside.

"We came to check on that guy they picked up on the road," Trevor says. He's still holding Tyler up, strong arms not straining at all. He might just be her new favorite person.

"Oh, how is he?"

"Well enough to leave," Rita says. She leaves without another word, tossing aside the beer bottle she'd brought along as a weapon.

"Alright, well, let's all get back to our cabins. We need some rest before the kids get here tomorrow. Uh, wait, why are you holding Tyler?"

"She wanted to know what it felt like to be carried over the threshold," Trevor shrugs. "I was the first to volunteer." Margaret looks like she wants to protest, but she just waves them all out of the infirmary. Tyler stays in Trevor's arms until they're off the porch, then he lowers her to her feet with a smile.

"You have really good reflexes," she says, patting his bicep. "You should use them to pin Montana against a wall." He laughs and slings an arm around Montana's shoulders. Montana wraps an arm around his waist as they all start walking again, the pair murmuring softly, words drowned out by the heavy rainfall.

Tyler claims a top bunk closest to the door once she's back in the cabin, toeing off her flip-flops and pulling the thin blanket up to her chin. She's too tired to change into her pajamas and the cardigan smells like her brother's cologne, the scent following her into dreamland.

She doesn't remember all of her dream when she wakes, but there's ash falling from a red sky and a man's voice that hisses, _here there be monsters_.


	4. Poking Dead Dudes With Sticks

It's close to two in the morning when Tyler wakes in a cold sweat, her shirt sticking to her back uncomfortably and her hair falling across her pillow in a riot of curls. She sits up and drops to the floor, Montana glancing away from a magazine as Tyler pulls on her shoes.

"You okay?"

"Fine," Tyler says, voice laced with sleep. "Just need some air." Montana shrugs, her attention returning to the glossy pages while Tyler grabs her walkman and leaves the cabin. The night air is crisp and cool on her overheated skin and she finally feels like she can breathe without tasting ash. The rain has left a clean scent to the air, like fresh laundry or the first snowfall.

She wanders away from the cabins, using the moonlight to guide her into the woods. She doesn't get far when she hears a scream, stepping into the gloomy shadows of the pines right before Brooke sprints past her back toward the cabins, another shape lurching up the path with its white teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

"Ricky," she asks, confused. The shape pauses as Brooke tears out of the trees, turning to send Tyler an unimpressed glare. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to kill that bitch," he grouses, gesturing in the direction Brooke had run in. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm a camp counselor." The answer seems to throw him for a loop and it takes a minute for him to do something other than letting out a low whine. He shakes his head, dark hair grazing an eyebrow before being impatiently flicked off his face. "You okay, big guy?"

"I'll be real honest with you, Falls, I've been better. All I wanna do is kill that skinny bitch and then get laid." He gestures in the direction Brooke had run again, the curved blade of his knife dripping gore. "Do you mind if I kill her? We can catch up at the next mass."

"Have at it." Tyler shrugs and watches him go, then turns to walk down the path toward the lake. What does she care if he kills Brooke? The chick seems cool, but Ricky is pretty brutal when it comes to sacrifices. He reminds her of one of the elders in their church, a Miss Mead who's already butchered three husbands without being caught. The woman's a legend and Ricky is ambitious.

Tyler clips her walkman to her waistband and slips on the headphones before pressing play. Cyndi Lauper blares out and Tyler manages a smile as she finally takes a seat on the docks. She loves being near water, the fizzing energy produced by the tide that always settles something inside of her. She's not a Witch by any stretch of the imagination, she's just been playing in water since she was two. Being born and raised in Florida pretty much guaranteed that.

" _Oh, Mama dear, we're not the fortunate ones_ ," she sings, softly and off-key," _and girls, they wanna have fun_ …." She bobs her head in time with the beat, kicking off her shoes and dipping her feet into the cold water. " _Oh, Daddy dear, you know you're still number one, but girls, they wanna have fun_ …."

She's almost relaxed when the screaming starts, making her head snap around so fast that her neck pops.

"Ow, fuck." She rubs at it even as she gets to her feet, the pain mostly a dull throb by the time she makes it to the showers. The boys are gathered around a dead man, the corpse a bit heavy with thick hair and dressed in a cheap suit. He's on his knees, slumped against the metal wall with some kind of a metal tool stuck in his head. "Chet," Tyler says, exasperated. "You can't go around poking dead dudes with _sticks_."

"Do you have a better suggestion," he snaps. "Ray, come check his pulse!"

"Why me," Ray asks. He looks like he's heading toward a full-blown panic attack, breaths short and raspy.

"You're the orderly!"

"Baby, the man has a hole in his skull and he's not moving," Tyler points out. "I'm pretty sure we can safely rule out a pulse. What we can't rule out is why a black man's fingerprints are on a white man's corpse. Cops in LA are kinda on the dumb side, but they're racist as fuck."

As if growing fed-up with the conversation, the dead man falls backward and the impact drives the tool farther into his head, popping the eye clear out of the socket. Trevor steps carefully around the guy, peering through the hole the corpse had revealed. Whether it was already there when the dead guy was whacked, Tyler couldn't say.

"I think he was watching us shower," Trevor muses, glancing back at the others. Tyler's suddenly glad that girls shower during the day and she makes a note to fill in the peephole if the camp actually opens on schedule. If nothing else, Dead Dude will make a great cautionary tale.

"Jesus," Brooke hollers. She and Montana crest a hill just behind the others, coming to a skidding stop at the bottom so they don't step on Dead Dude. Xavier is hot on their heels, but he's a little more composed than Brooke.

"Holy shit," Xavier gasps. "Is he dead?"

"Well, I don't know, X," Tyler says dryly. "I mean, he's got a spike in his noggin, but I guess he could still practice law."

"Then we need to call an ambulance!"

"Cops are our better bet," Ray says, the edge of hysteria starting to fade. He keeps a fairly level head in a crisis, though the biggest crisis they've faced together was that time Ellison broke his arm trying to play drunk chicken.

"Shit, looks like Brooke was right," Montana says. There are tears in her eyes, but no true sorrow. Let it not be said that Montana isn't a damn fine actress when she puts her mind to it. "She saw the Night Stalker down by the docks earlier. I thought she was just having a PTSD flashback or something, but…." She trails off, gesturing at Dead Dude with her flashlight.

"He attacked me," Brooke says," and there was already a dead body in the lake." The hysteria seems to have transferred from Ray to Brooke and Tyler is really getting fed up with the sound of it. The man's dead, they can't help him and they didn't kill him, so there's no need to make a fuss. While the girls are talking, Trevor kneels beside the body, then glances up at the others.

"Guys," he says," I don't think this was the Night Stalker." The cone of his flashlight highlights the gore on the left side of Dead Dude's face and, more importantly, the missing ear. As though waiting for a cue, a metallic jingle starts up somewhere in the trees.

"Anyone else not feel like being those stereotypical kids in a horror flick," Ray asks, surprisingly calm.

"I vote we all get to my van and book it back to the city," Xavier says.

The group is moving in an instant, barreling through the trees along one of the well-worn paths that'll take them to the parking lot. Tyler stays quiet despite the brambles and sticks that scratch at her bare feet, but she's not brave enough to make a side stop just for a pair of five-dollar shoes. They make it to the van in record time, yanking the back door open and piling in until most of them are squished together and Xavier and Chet are sitting up front.

"Xavier, hurry and get this piece of shit started," Montana yells, genuine fright taking over the mask of tears from earlier. She had been expecting _someone_ to die, but she wasn't expecting it to be Mister Jingles that killed them. The engine sputters just to spite all of them, Xavier pounding his hand against the dash.

"I can't die with a guilty conscience," Chet says around a sob. "I totally did those steroids."

"Yeah, we all fucking know!" The engine comes to life and Tyler lets out a loud whoop of excitement, the others cheering and flipping off the camp. For a moment, just long enough for Xavier to back the van up, Tyler forgets what always happens in horror movies involving doped-up twenty-somethings in a camp filled with murderous psychos, then someone's jumping into the van's path and Xavier swerves to miss them. The front of the van crashes into a parked car and shoves it into the bushes, the engine cutting out.

"Fuck's sake, we almost made it."

"We have to check on them," Brooke says. Tyler's about to veto that idea, but Brooke's already got the door open before she can so much as shake her head.

"Goddammit, why do we have to be good people," Tyler grumbles under her breath. She joins all but Xavier out of the van, finding Rita sitting on the ground with a nasty shoulder wound. Montana passes over her scarf for Rita to staunch the blood with, looking none too happy about it.

"He's in the infirmary," Rita says. "I thought I had the door locked, but then I heard the jingling. He's back." Trevor moves away from the van to help Rita up, brushing off the back of her shirt. Chet moves to stand at the passenger door, shaking his head at the way Xavier's still trying to get the van to start again.

"Dude, give it up," he says. "That van's dead as disco."

"We're all gonna be dead if we don't get out of here," Brooke says. The hysteria is starting to grate on Tyler's nerves and she's tempted to do Ricky a favor and just waste the bitch herself.

"I got a car," Rita says, breathing hard. "We won't all fit, though."

"I've got my Ninja," Trevor says. "I can fit someone on the back of it." He's looking at Montana as he says this and the blonde doesn't miss it. She's always had a thing for motorcycles. Tyler, meanwhile, is more than ready to use the heel-toe express if it means getting the fuck away from Jingles. "I'll have to get my keys out of the cabin, though."

"I have to get my keys, too. Somebody has to come with me 'cause I'm not making that trip by myself." There are no immediate volunteers because splitting up in horror movies is a trope so overused that even a two year old knows better. Still, they need keys if they want a chance of actually making it back to civilization.

"You guys are such pussies," Montana scowls.

"Montana, Xavier, and Tyler will come with me," Trevor states, a note of command entering his voice. "The rest of you will go with Rita and we'll meet back up in the parking lot. Let's go." Rita, Brooke, Chet, and Ray go in one direction while the other four take a different path, all of them hoping to make it out of this bullshit with some semblance of a pulse.

They book it to the boy's cabin even faster than they had the van and Tyler's feet are the bloodied, aching proof. She drops onto one of the beds as Trevor digs through his duffle, Montana shutting the door after them all. She stays near a window to keep watch, but Xavier's nerves have him pacing up and down between the bunks.

"We shouldn't have come here," he says, shaking his head. "We shouldn't have come here."

"Yeah, it wasn't our brightest idea," Montana says. "Blame it on a post-workout high." Trevor straightens, dropping his bag back to the floor and holding up the keys. He keeps them pressed against his palm with his thumb, making sure they won't make any noise. "Let's get back to the parking lot." They're almost to the door when they realize Xavier isn't following, one arm wrapped around a bedpost to keep himself upright.

"Dude, we need to leave," Trevor says.

"I never meant for any of this to happen," Xavier says, tears glowing silver in the moonlight as they slip across the sharp point of his cheek. "I just wanted us to have a fun summer. God, this is all my fault."

"I'm pretty sure you haven't committed any war crimes," Tyler says, sharp.

"I knew that guy in the showers. Blake came here because of me and now he's dead. I basically killed him, guys!" Tyler steps forward and gives him a rough shake, making his head snap back and forward. He stares up at her in shock, but the panic attack has been avoided.

"I don't care if that dead guy was your second cousin three times removed, Xavier. All I care about is getting the fuck out of here with both of my ears intact. As soon as we're back in LA, I'll find you the best therapist I can afford."

"Ty, you're _broke_."

"So I'll let you bitch on my couch in exchange for weed. Can we go now?" He's quiet for a moment before dipping his head in a nod. She grabs the sleeve of his jacket and is about to haul him with her outside when someone bangs their fist on the cabin door. It shakes and rattles on its hinges, the jangle of keys a constant companion.

"We're all gonna die here." Xavier drops to his knees, curling up beside the bed and hugging one leg of it. The tears are coming faster now, making his pale eyes glimmer in the silvery moonlight spilling through the window. Montana and Trevor try to get Xavier up, but Tyler's attention is still on the moonlight, following the neat square of light to the window. The curtains aren't drawn and anyone approaching the cabin would see how easy it is to break the glass.

"What a second, I thought Mister Jingles was supposed to be a smart killer."

"Is now really the time to debate what makes a killer smart," Montana hisses. "Come on, Xavier, we gotta get out of here."

"But why doesn't he just come through the window?" Montana's gaze snaps to the window now, her brows scrunched together with confusion. It doesn't make any sense. Even a killer with the IQ of Wile E. Coyote would come through the window once they established the door was locked. Why doesn't Jingles break the glass and butcher them all?

"If you're so damn curious, then go ask him." Tyler frowns, then grabs a bottle of cologne out of Trevor's bag and marches up to the door. The person on the other side looks shocked when the door is wrenched open, their face hidden by the hood of their rain slicker. She doesn't give them the chance to react, bringing the cologne up even with their face and beginning to pump the foul-smelling shit right in their eyes. The figure gives a shocked cry and tumbles backward, landing with a quiet _oof_ on their ass.

"Guys, I don't think this dweeb is Jingles."

"How can you be sure," Trevor asks. "Maybe you just surprised him." Tyler yanks back the hood to reveal a cheap Jingles mask and, beneath that, the face of a teenage boy around sixteen or seventeen.

"I'm not an expert, but I'm pretty sure Jingles wouldn't have acne." The boy glowers up at her and a second one is standing just shy of the porch steps, their face still hidden by a Jingles mask. "Now, I say we throw these two twat waffles in the lake and see if they can swim faster than that corpse Brooke saw in it."

"Jesus," Boy Number One says," you don't have to be such a bitch. It was only a joke." Without looking at him, she squirts more cologne in his face and gives the others a satisfied smile when she hears him topple down the short set of stairs. "Holy fucking shit, she got it in my eyes!"

"Why the fuck would you do something like this," Trevor demands. He and Montana have joined Tyler on the porch, but Xavier's still safely hidden inside.

"It's a tradition," Boy Number Two explains. "On the anniversary of the massacre kids pull pranks and screw with people." Xavier shuffles outside just so he can glower over at the assholes, leading the way down the steps. The boys stumble back so there's six feet between them and the others, a respectable distance. Tyler's pretty sure she could still hit Number One in the head with the cologne bottle.

"Townie assholes," Montana sneers. She looks about ready to cross the space and shove her boot up their asses, but she stops short halfway through a step. A new person has come up behind the boys, wide and tall in their own rain slicker. This one is considerably older than what the boys are wearing and there's no awkward bulge from a mask. "Oh boy…."

The boys turn and take in the new person without a trace of fear. Number One even opens his mouth to say something, but then the new guy is burying a knife in his chest and blood is dribbling down his chin as the smile transforms into a grimace of pain.

"What the fuck, Pete," Number Two says, shocked.

"I don't think that's Pete," Xavier says in a quivering voice. The figure jerks Number One around and against their chest, making sure the others get a nice, clean view as they drag the knife across Number One's throat. "That's the real Jingles."

"Parking lot," Trevor orders. "Move it!" He grabs Montana's arm and jerks her around, then they're all moving. Tyler tries to block out the gargled screaming of the boys, tries to focus on the blood rushing in her ears and the sound of her bare feet slapping rhythmically against the hard-packed earth of the path.

Tyler's not sure how long they run before they finally stop, the path they'd chosen in their haste to get away bringing them to the docks. It's fine, Tyler knows the way to the parking lot from here, they just have to fucking make it there without getting hacked into tiny pieces.

"Hang on," Trevor whispers, leading them over to the boathouse. They press against one side of the structure, watching Trevor creep a few feet over to peer around the edge to make sure the coast is still clear. "Okay, I think we lost him."

"What if he's just waiting for us in the parking lot," Tyler asks. She's struggling to hide just how hard she's breathing, some vain part of her not wanting these guys to see how out of shape she's gotten.

"We really need to talk about how bad your timing is," Xavier says, shaking his head. They come to a stop in front of the boathouse, twin flashlight beams highlighting the dirt and mud crusting Tyler's feet. "We also need to talk about the importance of sensible footwear, apparently."

"Oh, fuck you." She limps over to the dock to grab her shoes, slipping them on before rejoining the others. "Happy now, Xavier?"

"Not really."

"What a surprise," Montana mutters cruelly. Xavier ignores her and focuses his attention on Trevor.

"We should swing by Margaret's cabin and tell her what's happening. I mean, there's no way she can leave since her car is totaled and it's not fair if we just leave her here to fend for herself when Jingles wants to turn her into a lampshade. Bertie, too."

"Who the fuck is Bertie?" Xavier looks down at Montana and the offense curling his lip is almost enough to make Tyler laugh. It's just funny as hell right now when her nerves are raw and there's a serial killer after them. Of _course_ Xavier has enough energy to be offended.

"She's the cook."

"He's right," Trevor says, and the regret in his voice is just as funny as Xavier's offense. He doesn't give two shits about Margaret or Bertie. "No man gets left behind." Tyler narrows her eyes at him, resting her hands on her hips.

"We're not the fucking marines, Trevor," she reminds him sharply.

"No, but we're good people."

"Since when? I'm a total asshole at the best of times."

"Fine, _Chef_ _Bertie_ is good people."

"Jesus fucking—" Tyler's cut off by the jingling of keys, the sound echoing from the trees. Some irrational part of her mind swears the sound is coming from the lake, that the hulking form of Jingles will burst out of the water and drag them all down to the depths.

"Boathouse." The word is hissed, pitched so that the water won't amplify it. They all bend at the waist and move as quickly as they can up the ramp and inside, crouching down behind a boat that's been turned on its side and covered with a damp tarp.

The jingling of keys draws closer.

Tyler has her knees drawn up to her chest, startling when a new sound joins the keys. It's muffled, coming from a painter's sheet just in front of them. Tyler had thought it must be lumpy equipment, maybe even a volleyball set, but volleyball sets don't tend to wiggle or moan. Montana draws the sheet back, revealing a young blonde in nurse's whites. Her mascara is smudged under her eyes, giving her a look like a rabid raccoon.

"Untie her," Trevor orders. Montana works on getting the coarse rope from around the woman's thin wrists while Trevor and Xavier set to work on the rope around her ankles. Tyler just presses her back against the wall, listening intently to Jingles' progress.

There's a sound of irregular footsteps on the dock, a man with a limp.

"Almost here," Tyler whispers, a warning. Trevor slides away from the boat and hides behind a crate and a few tangled nets, safely hidden as he watches the front of the boathouse. There's no door to close, no extra barrier between them and the crazed murderer limping up the stairs.

The woman rips the duct tape off her mouth, letting out a loud sob that has Xavier slapping a hand over her mouth. She struggles against it, her sobs far too loud. _She's going to give us away_ , Tyler realizes. A cold bead of sweat slips between her shoulder blades, heart thumping so madly in her chest that she's afraid her ribs will break. _She's going to get us all killed_.

The footsteps are coming up the ramp now; _thud, thump, jingle, thud, thump, jingle_.

The bitch breaks free of Xavier's hold, scrambling out from behind the boat and into the open. None of them try to stop her, not when it means they might be safe. Maybe Jingles will think the idiot was the only one hiding here. Maybe he'll kill her and move on, giving them a chance to get to the parking lot in one piece.

"Please, God, no," the woman begs. Tyler brings her hands up over her ears and squeezes her eyes shut, warm tears slipping down her cheeks. She can still hear the high pitch of the woman's screams, can picture the horror there that casts strange shadows across her eyes, the way her face would be drawn and white. There's one final plea, a scream, and a wet squelch like a wellie pulling free of sucking mud, then the fading thud-thump-jingle of the killer walking out. The silence that follows it is somehow worse.

In silent agreement, they come out of hiding, gathering in a semi-circle around the mangled corpse. Trevor wraps a protective arm around Montana's shoulders, supporting her, reassuring himself that she's still there. Tyler and Xavier do much the same thing with each other, Tyler's arms around his waist and Xavier's around her shoulders. The woman is somehow still sitting upright, her head bent back at an extreme angle, dull eyes staring blindly up at the light in its wire cage and the jagged remains of an oar shoved down her throat. There isn't much blood, but the metallic scent of it pervades the space like a plague.

"Who is she," Trevor asks, a croak. Xavier frees one arm to flick on his light, the beam of it steady as it highlights the words stitched in red over the woman's breastbone. The embroidery work is neat and exact, probably machine-sewn rather than by hand. Tyler would guess it's one of many, shipped to some backwater hospital or a nursing home. It's the two words that catch her attention more than the thread.

 _Rita, RN_.


	5. Bad Timing

The trail to the parking lot is darker than most of the others, the pine trees growing tall here and creating a canopy above their heads. Moonlight falls across the path in little spots like the dappling of white on a newborn fawn, barely able to make it past the pine needles. They try to keep their flashlights shielded in case Jingles is wandering around nearby, but they freeze in unison when they hear a snapping twig up ahead.

"Is it him," Montana whispers.

"No jingling," Trevor returns. They crowd together so that they're all touching somehow—Xavier's shoulder against Tyler's, Tyler's pinky entwined with Montana's, Montana's free hand clutching Trevor's belt loop, Trevor's elbow pressed back against Xavier's stomach. It's like puppies during their first rainstorm, piling together so that the nasty thunder outside can't possibly get them. "Come on."

"Are you sure?" Trevor just shrugs in answer, the first to move. They go at a quiet shuffle, almost like they're competing in a three-legged race, unable to move without their partner pressed tightly against them. There's another crack of a breaking twig and then Ray comes around the corner, his back to them as he watches the path he's just come down. "Ray?" Ray spins at her voice, one hand brought back behind his ear and ready to punch.

"Whoa, it's just us." Ray's hand drops to his side, but he's jittery and on edge. This isn't like when he comes down from coke, not the same manic twitching of a person in need of a fix, this is adrenaline pumping through his veins and setting him on edge.

"What happened to you, man," Xavier asks. "You're bleeding." Ray's breathing hard and he can't seem to stay still, pacing a few feet one way and then back.

"We were attacked in the infirmary," he finally says, spitting the words out like they're poison. "Everyone scattered, but Chet helped me get away before I could get killed. He was right behind me a minute ago, but…." Ray shrugs helplessly, glancing back the way he'd come. "I had to cover myself with dirt and leaves to hide." And now that he's mentioned it, Tyler notices the brown leaf caught in his hair, the dirt and mud caking his bare arms.

"You should clean your wounds," Tyler says, gesturing at her own forearms. There are no sores there, just smooth, brown skin.

"Again," Xavier says, stern. "Timing, dear."

"Fuck off, I'm in shock."

"Would you two shut the fuck up," Montana demands. Her withering glare is enough to have the bickering pair snap their mouths shut in unison, almost like a practiced act. It's still strange to find herself sharing familiar gestures with someone that isn't her brother. "Where's Brooke?"

"She's probably still with Rita," Ray says. All thoughts of Ellison and bad timing are shoved out of her mind in favor of a gruesome image—Rita, fair-haired and petite, the broken edge of an oar shoved down her throat, blood smeared around her mouth like lipstick.

"Oh, fuck."

"What?"

"Rita's not actually Rita," Xavier explains. "We found the real one bound and gagged in the boathouse. She had on a nurse's uniform and everything, Ray. Jingles…. Jingles killed her."

"Then who the hell is with Brooke?"

"We don't know, Ray," Montana says. "We haven't exactly had time to play a rousing game of Guess Who what with a middle-aged douchebag trying to murder us and all."

"They're probably waiting for us at the parking lot like we agreed on. That's where we need to go." There's a waver to his voice, a certain pitch that speaks more of nerves than actual fear. Tyler figures that now isn't the time to bring it up.

"I'm not leaving Margaret and Bertie to fend for themselves," Trever says, firm and unbending.

"No man left behind," Xavier echoes.

"We're not the fucking Navy," Ray snaps. He lets out a sharp breath and looks away, trying to compose himself before he speaks again. The yellow streak down his back is practically neon, but Tyler's not going to judge him when she knows her own yellow streak could probably be seen from the moon. "You know what? _Fine_ , play the heroes. I'm gonna get the fuck out and live to _not_ tell the fucking tale."

"You ever ride a bike before," Trevor asks.

"Weren't y'all just complaining about Tyler's bad timing?"

"I'm gonna give you the keys to my motorcycle, you dipshit. Now, have you ever ridden a bike?"

"Yeah, a couple of times." Trever digs the keys out of his shorts pocket and tosses them to Ray, the faint jingle of metal making Tyler's jaw clench. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard at this point.

"There's a call box down the road, so take my Ninja down there and call the cops. Tell them Mister Jingles and some other killer is in camp and we need help before our skulls are used as a candy bowl. Meet us back in the lot after so we know you did it. Take one of the girls with you."

"Take Montana," Tyler says even as she wants to kick herself. "Out of the two of you, she's more rational." If they happen to run into the killer, Tyler's pretty sure Montana could snark the man into submission while Ray cheers her on from the sidelines.

"Are you sure," Montana checks.

"Fuck no. Get out of here before I change my mind." The pair take off at a sprint and it's not until they're out of sight that Tyler allows herself to regret it. She wants to cry and kick at the dirt, lay down and have a nice tantrum, but that would be too much noise and she rather likes having two ears. "Alright, let's go rescue Bertie."

"And Margaret," Trevor adds. Tyler makes a _meh_ sound, waffling her hand side to side. "Are you always this much of a bitch, Ty?"

"Pretty much." They get moving again after that, following a trail that will take them back toward the main cabins. Margaret's cabin is near the office and the mess hall is in the same area. They're almost to the halfway point when they hear a cry, muffled and weak coming from their right. "What's that?"

"I think it's Chet," Xavier says. "He made that same sound when he had the flu last year, remember?" Tyler wishes she didn't, Chet had ruined her favorite pair of shoes when he had that damn flu bug. "Come on." They follow the sound to a deep pit filled with wooden spikes, Chet lying at the bottom with a dark crust of blood along his left shoulder.

"Just leave me alone," he whines, not looking up at them. "Don't kill me, please."

"Chet?" His head snaps up and there's a palpable relief in the sag of his good shoulder. The left one is propped up at an odd angle and Tyler realizes why when Xavier flashes the beam over it. He's been impaled, a good six inches of wood driven through Chet's shoulder like he'd been attacked by some Dollar General Van Helsing.

"Xavier?"

"What the hell are you doing down there, man?" Chet pauses just long enough to give his patented Bitch Face™.

"I'm _dying_! What does it look like I'm doing? Please, get me out of here. I don't wanna die down here." The boys and Tyler all share a glance, none of them wanting to be the ones to tell Chet that the hunk of wood in his shoulder is the only thing keeping the blood loss to a minimum. "Please!"

"I'm coming down, Chet. Just hang on." Trevor and Tyler help to lower Xavier down, keeping him as close to the dirt wall as they can so he doesn't drop on one of the spikes. "Do you guys think if I started praying now, God would listen?"

"I think God's on hold, bud," Tyler grunts. Xavier has to drop the last couple of feet, stooped at the impact with his nose barely an inch away from the spikes. "Or maybe I'm wrong."

"I'm gonna pray in my head." Tyler gives him a thumbs-up as he picks his way through the pit. He's moving on tip-toe, back pressed against the wall until he's standing beside Chet. Chet himself has taken to rambling, pain and exhaustion demolishing his brain-to-mouth filter. "It's okay, buddy, I'm here. We're gonna fix this."

"Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou," he mumbles on repeat, tears cutting through the grime on his cheeks.

"Oh, that's gnarly."

"Jingles dug the pit. Ray was down here with me, too, but he left me." He almost chokes on a sob and the motion of it has new blood seeping into his shirt and jacket. "He left me here. I thought he was my friend, but he left me." Xavier looks over his shoulder at the other two, remembering Ray's story.

"He said you guys got separated."

"Dude's got issues." Xavier murmurs something, but Tyler's more preoccupied about the cracking twigs in the woods to their left. Her muscles bunch up, shoulders starting to ache with how tense they are. Trevor shushes the other two, pointing mutely at the woods.

"I can't do this, I'll kill him!"

"Better you than Jingles," Trevor hisses down at him. "Get him off that thing and get the fuck up here." Xavier yanks him up without much warning, Chet's scream of pain echoing through the woods. Any hope of safety they might have had is definitely gone now. Xavier doesn't give Chet a chance to rest, propelling him to the other end and hoisting him up for Tyler and Trevor to yank him up. "Get him off the path, Ty." Tyler nods, supporting Chet's weight as well as she can as she leads him over to a cluster of trees.

"It's gonna be okay," she promises. She pulls off her cardigan as the other two join her in the deep shadows, tying it around Chet's shoulder to try and staunch the blood. "I've got you, honey. You're gonna be okay."

" _Shh_." Her mouth snaps shut with an audible click of teeth, ears straining to make out anything other than the staccato beat of her heart. Suddenly she's back in the boathouse, listening to the heavy gait coming closer and closer, a drunk sort of wobble, the jingling of keys. The figure comes to a stop in front of the pit, gazing down into it. "We could take him."

"Are you fucking crazy," Xavier asks, voice a harsh whisper. "Chet can barely move and Jingles has a _knife_."

"His knife versus my guns." Trevor slaps his biceps for emphasis and then he's charging forward before Tyler or Xavier can stop him, ramming his shoulder against Jingles' back and knocking him into the pit. There's a terrified scream that's cut short, high and thin. "Welcome to your own petard, asshole!"

"Did he use that right?"

"He did," Chet nods, half out of it. "It comes from _Hamlet_ , I think." Trust Chet to know that, the bookworm. Tyler gives a faint smile, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. "I'm cold."

"That would be the blood loss." Xavier pulls his coat off and drapes it over Chet's front, then he's joining Trevor at the edge of the pit. They're whooping and hollering and it takes all of Tyler's restraint not to chastise them. Jingles might be dead, but there's still another killer out there. Granted, that killer is just Ricky, but it's still not ideal. The dude's kind of an asshole.

"Can you help me up so I can spit on Jingles?"

"Sure thing," Tyler nods. She helps him to his feet, shouldering his weight as she leads him back to the pit. The blood has drained out of his face, leaving a green tinge to it. "Easy, slow steps."

"You're such a mother hen." They come to a stop beside Xavier, peering down at the dark lump at the bottom of the pit. Looking at him from this angle, with the spikes driven through him, Jingles doesn't seem as scary as he had in the boathouse. He looks a bit insubstantial, there, but starting to fade.

"You shouldn't be moving around," Xavier says. If Tyler's the mom of the group, then Xavier has to be the dad. Montana would be the aunt that shows up with her girlfriend at Christmas dinner, half-drunk and handing out money as presents.

"Uh, guys," Trevor says. He's drifted over to the side of the path and straightens now, a mask grasped loosely in one hand. "Just so we're clear, that wasn't Mister Jingles. God, I feel like such an asshole now."

"Chalk it up to bad timing and let's get the fuck out of here." Xavier takes some of Chet's weight, nodding at the path they'd been following.

"Let's get Chet to the infirmary and one of us can stay with him while the other two go after Margaret and Bertie."

"I call dibs on Bertie." Tyler can't hold back a snort, grinning over at Xavier. The boy loves anyone who can cook and Chef Bertie is no exception. Tyler bets she makes a killer macaroni.

It's slow going up the various hills and dips, Chet only able to walk in short bursts. By the time they make it to the infirmary, he's basically unconscious. It's only the jolt of lying down that has his eyes fluttering open again, tears springing to his eyes.

"Anyone have a clue of what to do," Trevor asks. Xavier sends a pointed look at Tyler and she pretends to ignore it as she pulls a blanket over Chet's legs. "Tyler, do you have any first aid training?" She grimaces but meets his stare.

"It's a requirement for the social worker job, so I've been taking classes since I was ten," she admits. "They didn't teach us much about what to do when you're stuck in a camp with two homicidal maniacs and a pit of wooden stakes, though."

"I've never taken a first aid class, so you've got the most experience. What do we do?"

"Hope and pray I don't fuck this up." She takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to think of what needs to happen. She's got to clean out the wound to make sure he doesn't get an infection, but she also needs to keep him from bleeding out or going into shock. _Fuck_ , she should have paid more attention to ER.

"Tyler!"

"Scissors! I-I need to get this shirt off him so I can see the wound." Trevor goes to the large cabinet and starts digging through it, passing Tyler a pair of scissors. She makes quick work of Chet's ruined shirt, but she hesitates to actually pull it off of him. She'd have to undo the makeshift tourniquet and the material of his shirt has been glued to his chest by the tacky blood.

"Am I dying," Chet asks. He's crying again, doing his best to keep from sobbing and jostling the wound. Tyler wants to wrap him up in a hug and talk nonsense into his hair, anything to make him feel better. She settles on pressing her hand to his forehand, brushing the thick hair off his face.

"Not if I have anything to say about it. Xavier, I need something for him to bite down on." Xavier nods and moves away from the cot, digging through the drawers until he finds a jar of tongue depressors. "No, it's gotta be something that won't break."

"Why do I need to bite on something?" Tyler doesn't answer, just pulls Xavier close by his belt loop and slips the leather wallet out of his back pocket. "Tyler, why do I have to— Mmf!" Tyler puts the wallet in Chet's mouth so he doesn't accidentally break his teeth or bite his tongue.

"I'm gonna count to ten and then I'm going to rip your shirt off. It's stuck to your wound, so it's gonna hurt like a bitch. Ready?" Chet's nod is hesitant, but his confidence in her helps steady her nerves. "Trevor, we're going to need gauze, an ACE bandage, a bottle of water, and a suture kit."

"Sutures?" The word is muffled, but she can make it out just fine. Chet's eyes have gone wide, which at least means he's conscious enough to be shocked.

"Put 'em on a tray and wheel the fucker over here." Trevor nods, he and Xavier setting to work trying to find everything. Tyler waits until it's all arranged and the rolling tray is beside her. "Okay, one, two—" She rips the shirt off before he can tense, Chet's scream muffled around the wallet.

"That wasn't fucking ten!"

"You weren't tense either." She dumps the bottle of water over the wound, doing her best to flush out any dirt or splinters. Blood is flowing freely again, but she's settling into a rhythm as she grabs the suture kit. She's never stitched up anything more complicated than a throw pillow, but how different can it be, really? "Hold him down."

"Shouldn't we numb it," Xavier asks. His hands are fluttering over Chet's ankles, the concern in his eyes only showing how much he cares about their friend. "Stitches hurt."

"No time. Hold him!" Xavier holds down Chet's legs while Trevor holds his chest, the two men keeping him in place as Tyler starts to sew. She was wrong earlier, throw pillows are a pale comparison to stitching up an actual goddamn _person_. Pillows don't jerk and move, they don't curse or cry or make you feel like a total failure.

"Almost done, buddy," Trevor promises. "Just a little bit longer." Tyler's hands are steady even if the stitches aren't as even as she'd like. He's going to have a nasty scar but, dammit, he'll live.

"Lift him up so I can get the back." Trevor nods and hauls Chet upright, squeezing him in a bear hug as Tyler stitches up the back of the wound. When it's finally done, she tapes a couple pieces of gauze around both sides and covers it with the ACE bandage. "I'm done."

"You hear that? She's done, you're gonna be okay now." Trevor's gentle as he lies Chet back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin. Chet's shaking, but he's conscious and warm. "Now all we have to do is stay here until Ray and Montana come back with the cops."

"Ray's a little bitch," Chet mumbles. His eyes flutter shut, but he forces them back open again. "He killed some kid in college and the cops are looking for him, so there's no way he'll bring them here."

"And I thought making porn was bad," Xavier mutters. The other three pause and turn to glance at him, raising their brows.

"What," they ask in unison. Xavier glances at all three of them, furrowing his brows as though in offense.

"Nothing." Chet's eyes flutter again and then he's out like a light, letting out a faint sigh. Tyler checks his pulse, a steady beating against her fingertips. "Should we wake him up?"

"Nah," she sighs. "Let him sleep while he can. If we have to run again, then he'll need his energy." She slides down the side of the cot so that she's sitting on the floor, holding her hands away from her. They're caked in Chet's blood and dirt from the run here, the filthy scent of them making her want to hurl. "God, I need a bath."

"Oh my God! Porn!"

"It won't do Chet any good right now. What little blood he has left needs to be fueling his upstairs brain."

"No, Blake drove here!" Tyler looks over at him, trying to remember who the hell Blake is. "The dude with the spike through his head that you said could be a lawyer! He drove here and that means his car is still parked by the showers and the keys are in it! We have a way out of here!"

"Let's grab the girls and then we'll head to the car," Trevor says, growing excited again. At this point, Tyler's too tired to manage anything more than a dull throb of happiness. She just wants a warm bath and a nice coma. "Will you be alright here with Chet?"

"We'll be super," she says dryly. "After you guys leave, we'll make s'mores and braid each other's hair." Tyler grabs the scissors off the rolling tray, wrapping her fingers around the handles and holding it like a knife. "Circle back around here to help me with Chet, okay?"

"Promise." Xavier hesitates just long enough to hug Tyler before he and Trevor are marching out. Tyler waits until she's certain no one else is lurking outside, then she goes to the sink to wash the blood off. She can't stand the smell of it, the tacky feel of it all the way to her wrists. She sucks in a deep breath, grabbing the bar of soap and scrubbing it hard over her hands and wrists; the blood makes her itchy and she wants it _off_. When the soap turns pink, she grabs up a washrag and scrubs even harder, the red coming off in flakes and then in rivulets until it's washed down the drain by the spray of water, swirling and circling before the tide forces it down.

She brings a damp washcloth with her to the bed, washing the grime and dried tears off Chet's face so he can feel a little cleaner when he wakes. She works slowly and methodically, removing the ruined shirt and stained jacket until he's only in his pants and shoes.

"What's going on?" The words come out slurred, but she can understand them just fine after so many drunken nights spent curled up together. She and Chet never slept together, they just don't like being alone. They passed so many nights curled up in a bed, watching cartoons and getting high on the primo shit Ellison had scored from some rundown hotel.

"Just cleaning you up," Tyler murmurs, wringing the cloth out over the floor. "Do you want me to find you another shirt?"

"No, it's fine." She nods and watches as his eyes close again. She thinks he's asleep for a moment, time stretching out to infinity as she continues to wash the filth off of him. "Will you sing me something?"

"I don't sing."

"Just this once, then." She wants to tell him no, to joke that her voice would send cats into fits, but the truth is that she'd do just about anything to make Chet okay. She sings the first song that comes to mind, an old lullaby her father had sung to her when she was little and sick.

" _I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine, anytime night or day_." She's in the middle of the song, but her mind is running on empty and she's doing her best just to stay upright. " _Only trouble is, gee whiz, I'm dreamin' my life away. I need you so that I could die. I love you so and that is why whenever I want you, all I have to do is dream_ …."

"You're a terrible singer." He smiles up at her and the relief she feels at seeing it is almost overwhelming, a dizzying crash of emotions that has her swaying. "Sit down before you fall down, Ty." She drops onto the edge of the cot, running her fingers through her curls. She should have braided her hair last night or wrapped it because now it's unruly and snarled. Her hair's also gotten a bit dry, but she's too tired to give much of a shit.

"I'm gonna get so drunk when we leave here."

"Same. All the drinks, even the girly ones."

"Girly drinks are the best drinks." A whole bottle of tequila, some cherries and pretzels, that'll be Heaven. Tyler lies down on the cot, getting as close as she can to Chet without hurting him so she doesn't fall backward. She's almost asleep when she hears a noise; footsteps, rapid and even, no jingling.

"Did you hear that?"

"Stay quiet." She rises with an alertness that shouldn't be possible, creeping closer to the door with the scissors raised. She's ready to pounce when the figure comes into the room, tall and leanly muscled, their shorts a little too tight over their junk. It's just Trevor.

"Were you going to stab me," he asks, flicking his gaze down to the scissors and back to Tyler's face.

"A girl scout is always prepared."

"I thought that was the boy scouts."

"How the fuck should I know? I just buy the cookies. Where's Margaret?" She's not waiting anywhere inside the infirmary because no one's yelled at Tyler to watch her language, but maybe she's outside.

"She's insisting that she's staying here. She says she and the kids that arrive tomorrow will be safe because she has a gun."

"I wouldn't trust that chick with a spoon, let alone a gun." Trevor heaves a sigh and shrugs his shoulders in a universal gesture of _whatever_. "Alright, let's get Chet up and head for the car."

"We have a car," Chet asks.

"That dead peeping Tom from the shower drove here," Trevor tells him. "You feeling any better?" Chet shrugs his good shoulder, managing to sit up without any help. He still doesn't have any color in his cheeks, but he doesn't look like he's about to pass out either.

"I feel like I got stabbed."

"So no change?"

"Small change, but I think that's the blood loss." Trevor helps him into the discarded jacket, then helps him to his feet.

"Tyler, door." She nods and walks ahead of them, brandishing the scissors in case Jingles or Ricky is waiting to ambush them. She shoulders the front door open, waving the boys through when she's certain the coast is clear. "Okay, the showers are a straight shot from here, right?"

"Dude, I've only been here a few hours." Trevor switches his gaze to Tyler and she holds her hands up and shakes her head. "I think we could get there quicker if we didn't follow the paths. We might get confused and go the wrong way if we do."

"Past the archery shit, right?" Chet nods and lets out a whimper, pressing his bad arm against his chest. The less he moves it, the less he'll bleed. "Alright, let's go." They go slow, both for Chet and to strain for any serial killer noises, making it all the way to the archery shit before two gunshots ring out.

"Margaret?"

"Had to be. Someone should go check on her." They all share a look, no volunteers stepping forward. What's the point of being a hero when you could be killed for it? Tyler doesn't want to be remembered when she's dead, she wants to be remembered while she's still kicking.

"Shh, wait. What was that?" Tyler strains to hear anything, but then there's the rustling of leaves, a familiar voice muttering a curse.

"It's just Montana," Tyler says, breathing easier. They start moving again, finding Montana a few steps away around one of the targets. She jumps when she spots them, but then her shoulders relax. "Hey, babe."

"Hey," she greets, breathy. "Did you guys hear that gunfire?"

"It was Margaret," Trevor says. He's eyeing Montana like she's a tall glass of water and he's been stranded in the desert for a week. It's a bit much, but who is Tyler to judge? It's not their fault she's going through a dry spell. "You look gorgeous."

"You don't look so bad yourself." She flicks her hair over her shoulder and smiles up at him, the cool one she dons whenever she flirts. The hair flip and the smile are basically code for _you're cute, let's fuck_. "Have you guys seen Brooke? We got separated."

"Haven't seen her. Look, can you take Chet? Margaret might be in trouble and I should go check on her. Chet knows where a car is and you two should be safe in it as long as you stay low." He glances over at Tyler and she feels the urge to throw a tantrum again, squashing it down with a babyish groan.

"I don't wanna be a hero," she whines.

"Too bad. I'm not dealing with that crazy bitch by myself. It's a straight shot to the showers from here, Montana." She blows him a kiss and swats Tyler on the ass, then she and Chet are moving away down the hill. Tyler glances over at Trevor, making sure he meets her gaze before she talks.

"If I die here, I'm haunting the fuck out of you."

"That's fair." They take off at a fast jog, staying bent over in case Jingles is hiding in the woods. Better to stay low and survive than strut around and be turned into Hannibal's main course. The door to Margaret's cabin is shut and locked when they reach it, Trevor having to throw his weight against it a couple of times to get it open. "Margaret!"

"Is she dead?" Tyler comes in behind him, freezing when she spots Margaret standing across from them with a revolver in her hand. She's got it pointed right at them and the smile curling her full lips is manic, unhinged. Oh, this is bad. "Not dead."

"Thank God, we thought you were hurt." Trevor doesn't sense the danger, probably thinks Margaret is relieved to be rescued. In fact, Margaret looks entirely at ease, the gun a familiar weight in her hand, her finger resting lightly over the trigger. She lowers it after a moment, tossing it aside. "Holy shit."

"What?"

"She killed Jingles." Tyler pops her head around Trevor's arm, spotting the real Jingles sprawled out on the floor behind Margaret. This close, she can see just how tall he is, monumental and dead as a doornail. "That's fucking _awesome_!"

"I got him right after he killed the two of you," Margaret says, conversational, like they're talking about the weather. Tyler's gaze snaps back to Margaret, her mouth dropping open in a squawk of offense.

"What?" Margaret is fast for a short girl, darting forward and burying a knife in Trevor's stomach. She grabs his shoulder to keep him upright and the expression that takes over her face is rapturous, an orgasmic relief that has Tyler fixed in place.

"That feels so good," she sighs, smiling up at the counselors. "I haven't done that in fourteen years." she does it again and lets Trevor fall to his knees, staring up at her in shock.

"R-run…." Tyler turns to sprint, but her legs have turned to Jell-O and she trips over her own feet. She falls hard, landing on her wrist and feeling the bone snap, a strange pop before fire is licking up her arm. "Ty-ler." She manages to flip onto her back before Margaret is on her, the knife cutting through Tyler's throat like butter.

She's dead before Margaret cuts off her ear.


	6. Where the Lost Souls Go

**1989**

Tyler remembers being five when she first asked her mom if she believed in ghosts. Avery had tilted her head back to look up at the stars, cradling Tyler to her chest like she was the most precious thing in the world, and said," Yes."

"Have you seen one?"

"Oh, yes. I was twenty-six, traveling around in a freakshow with your uncle Jimmy, and a ghost came to me on Halloween night." Her voice had taken on a storyteller's tone, quiet and secretive. "The man was tall and dressed in a nice suit, his features handsome."

"How'd you know he was dead?"

"A green mist and a motley band of freaks traveled with him. He was looking for a freak to take with him to that other world, the place where the lost souls go." For years after that, Tyler would remember the phrasing, how she'd said _lost souls_ instead of _dead things_ , a nice _place_ instead of just _Heaven_ or _Hell_.

Tyler wants to believe in that nice place, but she's been dead for five years and she can't even leave the fucking camp. Maybe if she had paid more attention to her studies, the rules of the church, she wouldn't be stuck here. Mead would call her pathetic, but Mead is a bitch and a large part of Tyler, the part that still writhes with anger, wants to rip the old bitch's throat out with her own two hands.

She stomps through the remains of Camp Redwood, clawing at the tree branches in her way and the mosquitos circling her head. Apparently they haven't gotten the message that the dead don't bleed. She doesn't stop her tirade until she reaches the docks, her safe haven.

Montana's already there, dressed in a bright red bikini top and jean shorts, looking like a wrathful goddess compared to the human she's flirting with. Tyler saunters over with a smile of her own, a spiteful thing that has the human edging back just a step.

"Don't worry," Montana says. She wraps an arm around Tyler's waist and their smiles turn into a matching set, sweet-as-sugar. The malice hides in their bones, festering. "This is my friend."

"Her _best_ friend," Tyler agrees with a giggle. The human relaxes, edges back into their space. The man is a middle-aged ginger with the beginning of a paunch, dressed in various shades of olive green. He wouldn't be too out of place in a Mash episode. "Are you one of those ghost tourists?"

"No, he's here for the ducks."

"Oh, surely there are better things to photograph." Tyler reaches out, running a finger along the barrel of his camera. His eyes track the movement, a flash of pink as he wets his lips. She doesn't take her hand back right away, letting her finger swirling along the outside of the lens. "You could take our picture."

"We're good at posing. Just tell us how you want us." He swallows with an audible click and he licks his lips again. Teasing men is a nice enough pastime since they can't get high anymore.

"Sure," he says, nodding. "Uh, yeah, I'll take your picture." They crowd closer to him, still smiling despite the blades that appear in their hands. He hasn't noticed it yet, his instincts are telling him that two women couldn't possibly hurt him. Tyler and Montana are predators, born and bred.

"Tops on or off?" The man's eyes widen and he glances over his shoulder like he's afraid of being caught.

"Oh, you shouldn't— My girlfriend's around here somewhere."

"Don't worry," Tyler purrs. "We won't tell if you won't." Her free hand slides over his chest, scratching lightly at his nape where it comes to rest. There's a flush to his cheeks and the sight of it makes Tyler's blood boil. "Don't you want to play with us?"

"If you can't have a threesome on your birthday, then when can you," Montana asks, pressing close. Her hand drifts opposite the path Tyler's had taken, massaging him through his shorts. "Don't you wanna stick it in us?" He nods, a hurried motion that almost makes Tyler laugh at his desperation.

"God, yes," he gasps.

"Us first." They strike in unison, driving their knives in until blood gushes warmly over their hands. The man dies before he registers the pain, a bloody pile of limbs on the edge of the dock. Killing people and the surge of adrenaline that comes with it is the closest Tyler can get to being happy.

"It's always over too fast," Tyler pouts.

"So we'll kill him again later. We can take our time." Tyler drops the knife as Montana's arm goes around her waist once more, always much more relaxed after a kill. "I'll bet we could stretch it out for _hours_."

"Stretch what out," Xavier asks. He comes down the steps from the boathouse, looking hale and hearty. The burns he'd suffered in life had healed a year after he died, like the camp's version of an apology. "Anything fun?" He waggles his brows as he comes over to them, pulling them close.

"Tyler wants to kill again, babe."

"So we'll kill that dweeb again." Tyler manages a smile, weak as morning sunlight, and nuzzles under his chin. She presses a kiss to his pulse point, missing the steady beat against her lips. "Until he wakes up, we could always have a different kind of fun. What do you say, Ty? Play with us?"

"Fine, but not out here," she says. "I'm not having a threesome where Rita died." She's still wary of the boathouse and Margaret's old cabin, no happy memories attached. Actually, there aren't any happy memories to be found anywhere on the grounds, but they do their best.

"Come on, I think I saw camping shit by the lake." Xavier wriggles his way between the women so he can wrap his arms around their shoulders, leading them around the lake until they find a tent. It's green, olive drab. Tyler's pretty sure it was the human's favorite color. "Wow, he was really into green, huh?"

"It's not even a good shade." They descend on the man's belongings like locusts on Ramses II, picking through the various bags and coolers. They can have sex anytime they want, new shit, however, never gets old. Montana pulls out a brightly-patterned coat, designed to show off the belly.

"What do you guys think," she asks, holding the coat against her chest. "Is it me?"

"Or is it a little too much of a depressed soccer mom," Xavier teases. Montana laughs and tosses the coat at Xavier's head, her smile fond. The trio has grown closer over the last five years, tied together by barely repressed anger, a hot throb in their bellies urging them to kill.

"Goddammit, Montana," Ray yells, storming up the path. Tyler rolls her eyes and ducks farther into the tent to avoid getting yelled at. "You can't just leave dead bodies to rot in dead fucking daylight!" Montana and Xavier stand and take a few steps forward, nonchalant.

"Take a pill, Ray," Montana says, shrugging. "You know you're gonna clean it up like always."

"You can't kill every single person that wanders through here!"

"Yes, I can," Montana says in the same instant that Xavier says," Yes, she can." The fact that they're so in sync is almost cute if they weren't also bloodthirsty murderers. "There aren't any rules for this being dead thing."

"You don't know that for sure." Ray sounds frustrated rather than angry, so Tyler crawls out of the tent. She straightens and flips her hair over her shoulder, brushing the dirt off her knees. "Y'all don't know why we're stuck here."

"I do," Tyler says, raising her hand like she's a student again. She saunters up to the others, wrapping one arm around Ray's shoulders and waving the other in a dramatic arch like she's setting a scene. "Satan."

"You're not even a real Satanist, Ty."

"That doesn't mean the big guy doesn't exist. He totally would have resurrected me if I was more devout." She shrugs and drops her arms back to her sides. "One day I'll be alive again, and do you know what?"

"What?"

"You'll still be stuck in this shitty camp because you think your God will save you. Newsflash, babe, you're a murderer just like the rest of us. You know who favors murderers? My boy Lucifer." Ray scoffs and takes a step away from her, looking disgusted. "Oh, don't look at me like I just kicked a puppy."

"You really wanna go to Hell?"

"I'm gonna do so many bad deeds that I'll have a place of honor when I finally die. I could be his number one girl."

"Holy shit," Montana gasps. Tyler glances over as Montana approaches, holding a newspaper out for Ray to take. Tyler reads the headline over his shoulder, sucking in a sharp breath. _Camp Slayer to Die by Lethal Injection_. There's a picture beside it, a grainy, black and white thing, of Brooke in prison blues and handcuffs. "Karma finally slapped that bitch across the face."

"Convicted on eleven counts of first-degree murder," Ray asks, confused. "But she only killed one person and, no offense, but you kind of had it coming, Montana. How'd they come up with the other ten people?"

"Margaret would be my guess. She pinned the first set of murderers on Jingles and Brooke is Jingles two-point-oh." Ray turns to look at Tyler and the pleading in his gaze is enough to make her feel a stab of guilt. She didn't _hate_ Brooke, she was even happy the bitch made it out alive, but that doesn't mean Tyler feels an overwhelming urge to help her either.

"Do you think your brother could get her off?"

"Oh, totally. Give him a dark room and flowers and he could get just about any girl off," Tyler nods.

"You know that's not what I meant." Tyler's about to say that Ellison would probably do anything Tyler asked, but she's interrupted by footsteps. After five years, she's learned the cadence of footsteps, knows who's walking past without ever having to look up. These footsteps belong to someone new, someone still alive.

"Dustin, you back," a woman calls. She's pretty, around the same age as the man from the docks with rich brown hair and a light brown complexion. She's not pretty enough to be a model, but she isn't ugly either. "Oh, I didn't know anyone else was here. I don't suppose you guys have seen my boyfriend."

"Sorry, I haven't seen anyone else around. I just happened to spot your newspaper on my way by." Ray waves the newspaper like he needs proof. He's always been a shitty liar. Tyler snorts and he hurries to meet the woman at a halfway point, keeping space between her and the others. "Can you tell me about the woman in this picture? She's my friend and—"

"You're friends with a serial killer?" Montana sidles up behind Ray, stopping a few feet away with a charming smile. Tyler joins her, wrapping her arms around Montana's slim waist as Xavier cuts through the trees to sneak up behind the woman.

"Don't listen to him," Montana says. "Too much sun makes him delusional."

"You stay out of this," Ray shouts, turning to point a warning finger at the women. He falters, seems to do a mental count, and then furrows his brows. "Wait, where's—" He turns to face the woman again with realization etching harsh lines across his forehead. Xavier steps out of the trees and runs the sharp edge of a knife across the woman's throat, arterial spray painting Ray's face vermilion. "I'm _done_ cleaning up after you assholes!"

"He's such a drama queen."

The camp stays quiet for two weeks after the murders, Dustin and his girlfriend wandering around aimlessly. They're lost, just like the rest of the souls trapped in Camp Redwood, without purpose. It had taken Tyler a full year to work it out in her head, to break a vicious cycle of wandering through the woods, wondering why the camp wasn't open.

She's been here long enough to enjoy the confusion of the newly deads, sitting high up on a tree branch where no one can spot her. That's where she is when a line of cars and trucks drive onto the grounds, filled with fresh bodies for her to play with. They park in front of the lake and a group of men set to work on making the space presentable.

"What do you think is going on?"

"No idea," Chet shrugs. He's got one arm wrapped around the tree trunk like he's afraid the branch and his neck will break. Even dead, he's chicken when it comes to heights, but Tyler doesn't mock him. Chet's her best friend, they only tease each other about lighter things, never the deep, dark fears.

"Wanna get closer?"

"Too many people, Ty. You can't kill all of them." She heaves a sigh and rests her head on his shoulder, taking comfort in the scent of pine and Chet's cologne. "Maybe they've got some drugs."

"Nah, working types like those guys get tested too regularly. I bet they don't even smoke pot."

"So lame." The men make quick work, they even put up a bright orange banner with _It's your turn to DIE, Camp Redwood Food and Music Fest_ printed across it in black and white lettering. As the men clear away, news vans pull in and those worker ants bring cameras and boom mics with them, crowding close together as a Mercedes comes into view. "Who do you think that is?"

"Someone rich. Oh, maybe it's Winona Ryder!"

"Don't hold your breath." They're both leaning forward excitedly, Chet's free arm sliding across Tyler's chest and grasping the branch like some sort of seat belt to keep her from falling. The driver's side door opens and a tall blonde steps out, hair piled high up on her head and dress printed with neon flowers. "Holy shit, it's Margaret." It's a punch to the gut, seeing the bitch alive after all these years. She looks whole and healthy, no sign of aging or grief or guilt. Tyler wants to jump down and beat her head in with a rock, scratch out her eyes, rip that smug smile into shreds. She tenses, ready to do all of that and more, but Chet holds her back.

"Let me—"

"Wait for a better time." She growls low in her throat, narrowed gaze so focused on Margaret that she doesn't even notice the passenger until they've got a hand on the small of Margaret's back. "I told you he wasn't dead. You owe me twenty bucks."

"Fuck you, Chet." Trevor looks around the old camp, looking a little older, a little worn at the edges. Even from so high up, Tyler can see the way one hand goes to his old wound. She wonders if it stings late at night, if he ever feels like he's being stabbed all over again. Tyler's hand rises to her throat, as smooth as it has always been before Margaret sawed through it. "Should we tell Montana?"

"She already knows." Tyler makes a small _huh_ noise, then gazes in the direction Chet's pointing. Montana and Xavier had been drawn in by the noise and now they sit crouched in the bushes, watching the spectacle as Margaret, Trevor, and some short dude make their way to the front of the crowd.

"Thank you all for joining me here today," Margaret says, addressing the crowd of journalists. She's smiling, almost radiant as sunlight glitters on the lake behind her, making her hair shine like spun gold. "Like all of you, I know both the beauty and the horror of this camp."

"Not yet you don't, bitch."

"I want to baptize this place with the cool waters of this bottomless lake, which is perfect for swimming and boating, and with the power of rock and roll! I've secured an all-star lineup of bands, and a select, well-paying few can stay in the actual cabins where the massacres took place."

"The only one that actually died in a cabin last time was you."

"Nobody ever said the bitch was smart," Tyler grumbles. She's still got one hand at her throat, rubbing at the line that had once been torn, ragged flesh. It had taken her a full year to heal once she'd died, but the gruesome image of it still appears every time she closes her eyes.

"Will there be any of your famous scares on Halloween night," one reporter asks.

"Would it be one of my attractions if there weren't," Margaret teases. "There will be plenty of spooky and bloody surprises. Call our eight-hundred number as quickly as you can because our VIP members have already bought eighty-percent of our tickets."

"What about the recent murders," another journalist asks. "The police still haven't caught the person responsible for them. There's still blood on the dock." It's been cooked into the wood, not even bleach capable of washing it away.

"There may be a killer stalking these woods again, but isn't that part of the excitement? Don't you wanna be scared? Alright, that's all for today, guys. Thank you again for coming out here with me." The ghosts watch as the people are herded back to their cars and vans, Margaret's Mercedes pulling away.

"We can't kill her on the property," Chet says. "I don't want to run into her every day."

"The brain stays alive for up to six minutes after death," Tyler says. "We have to kill her near the border and then just toss her over. Two birds, one bloody knife." Chet and Tyler share a smile, watching the last car pull onto the road back to town.

A few more days and Margaret Booth will get her just desserts.


	7. Time of Death

**1985**

Camp Redwood has gone downhill in the year since the murders, the sign starting to rot, weeds growing over the dirt road, cabin roofs starting to sag. Ellison isn't going to lie, it's pretty fucking depressing. He really hopes it had been beautiful when his sister died, some semblance of pretty even if it was just wildflowers or the clean scent of water.

"Do you really think she's here," he asks, gazing around. There isn't any sign of people, no footprints in the dirt or hum of conversation. Beside him, Sam is looking around with her brows furrowed. She turns slowly, dark hair swaying against her cheek.

"There," she murmurs, pointing. Ellison follows her stare to a darkened window of a cabin, catching sight of a blur of movement before the frame is empty. "I think…. I think that was Tyler."

"But you're not sure?"

"There are so many people trapped here, Ellis. One soul blends into another." Ellison can feel a dark presence pushing in on him, something a shade lighter than his master.

"I know my sister, Sam. She wouldn't be holed up in some musty cabin." He takes his fiancée's hand and leads her deeper into the camp, following trails and busted signs until he hears water lapping against the sand. That's where he finds her, his baby sister huddled against four other people, one hand rubbing over her throat and eyes glazed. "Tyler?"

"Tyler's dead, try again later," she says, monotone. Ellison moves closer, still holding Sam's hand for all he's worth. If he can't get his sister to snap out of this, then he's going to need Sam's help.

"Tyler, do you remember me?" Tyler looks away from the water, her dark eyes dull and lifeless. There's no spark there, no sign of the fiery kid he'd fought with and gossiped with. It's like her whole personality drained out of her when her blood did. "Tyler, please—"

"Ellison Daniel Falls." He smiles and nods, urging her to keep talking. Anything to hear her voice again, even if there's no life to it. He can't lose her yet, it would damn near kill him. "Tyler Elise Falls."

"That's right, Ty. That's who you are." Tyler looks up at him with something like awe, oblivious of the dried blood crusted around her throat or the damp sand clinging to her ruined skirt. It's the same outfit she'd been wearing when Ellison identified her at the morgue; jean skirt, rainbow-striped tee, and flip-flops. The only thing missing is the bloodied cardigan she'd stolen from him that the cops found on the infirmary floor.

"I'm Tyler, _I am_. Tyler." She nods a little, some of that spark coming back into her eyes. She's more animated, looking back to her friends. They look just as bad as Tyler, bloodied, burnt, soaking wet creatures that should be put out of their misery. She reaches out and touches each friend in turn, murmuring their name to them and watching them come to life.

"There's my girl," Sam grins, pulling Tyler up into a hug. Tyler goes willingly, clenching her fingers in the back of Sam's dress. "You don't know how much we've missed you, sweetheart."

"You two tie the knot yet?" Ellison's laugh is ragged at the edges, ripping out of his throat almost painfully. "At least tell me that big goon proposed." Sam pulls back enough to hold up her left hand and the impressive ring she's wearing, a circle-cut ruby in the center of a sterling silver pentagram.

"We haven't set a date yet."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't possibly get married without my maid of honor." She leans around Tyler to give Montana a pointed look. "Or my other bridesmaid." Montana smiles over at them, absently plucking her bloody dress away from her chest. As Sam keeps the conversation going (something about seashell or eggshell tablecloths), Ellison watches the group begin to heal. An hour later finds them all gathered around a campfire, Tyler tucked against Ellison's side and a plan unfolding in his mind.

He's going to resurrect his sister and Satan is going to help him do it.

**1989**

The viewing room is a cramped, sterile place that makes Ellison's skin crawl. He'd rather be in the woods, a sturdy ax in his hand and Margaret Booth kneeling at his feet. She wouldn't need to beg, she wouldn't even need to be still, because she's going to die no matter what. He wants to cut off parts of her and make her watch, drag it out into a spectacularly bloody display.

That fantasy is enough to keep his anger in check. It would ruin all his hard work if he gets arrested now. So Ellison takes a seat behind Margaret and Trevor, the two lucky survivors of the Camp Redwood massacre, his gaze focused on the glass window. The curtains are pulled back to reveal a skinny little thing, her long hair falling limply across her shoulders, her dark eyes filled with a ruthless determination.

Brooke Thompson has had a rough life, Ellison has done enough research to know this. She had to watch her fiancé kill her father and best friend before taking his own life, accidentally slept with a ghost, watched all of her new friends be cut down one by one only to kill in self-defense and get framed for all the fucking murders.

Ellison feels bad for the kid, but he will admit that it's a little satisfying to watch her die. It's the Master's will, after all. She could join up with them and live forever or she could tell Satan to go fuck himself and die by lethal injection. Honestly, she's got bigger balls than most men Ellison has met.

"If you have any last words say them now," the warden instructs.

"I know you're there, Margaret," Brooke says, quietly defiant. "I have committed no crimes, I am and will always be innocent, and you are going to burn for watching me die." Brooke spits at the glass and Margaret gives a dramatic gasp, one manicured hand coming up to hide a vindictive smile.

"Quite the drama queen," Sam whispers, breath warm against Ellison's ear. He nods, watching Brooke get strapped to the padded table and slowly lowered into place. The executioner is dressed in all blue today, a mask hiding their face from view as they administer the anesthetic. Three shots altogether, relatively painless, a fast death. At any rate, it beats what Tyler and her friends had gone through five years ago.

 _I hope it doesn't hurt_.

Now comes the paralytic, delivered through an IV. Brooke lets out a slow breath, her lips pursed before smoothing. It hasn't taken effect yet, but the poor girl is trying to stay composed until it does. Ellison gets the feeling that she would rather shoot herself than show any more weakness to Margaret. Her body goes limp after a moment, but her chest is still moving, a gentle up-and-down. The potassium chloride is next and it's not long at all before that up-and-down motion ceases forever.

To say it's all very anticlimactic is an understatement.

"Time of death is 12:02 AM," the warden announces. "The sentence of Brooke Thompson has been carried out. Please exit." The people around them stand and shuffle out, but Margaret and Trevor stay sitting. Ellison stands and waits, eyeing the back of Margaret's head and willing her to drop dead of a heart attack.

"They really should consider bringing back the guillotine," she sneers. "I would have paid good money to see her head roll." Ellison leans down, curling his fingers over Margaret's shoulder tight enough to bruise.

"You know I was just thinking the same thing, Margaret," he whispers, keeping her down when she tries to wriggle out of his grasp. "Maybe I'll get to see your head roll soon enough. If I'm really lucky, I'll get to be the one that takes it off."

"Who the fuck do you think you are." She glares up at him like she's a certified badass. She doesn't like to think that the only reason she's been able to get away with all these murders is sheer luck.

"I'm Tyler Falls' big brother and I know you're the bitch that did her in. Watch your back, Margaret." He gives a hard shove to her shoulder before storming out, Sam easily keeping up with his long stride. She may be short, but she's surprisingly fast.

They're almost to their car when Sam's fingers grab Ellison's sleeve, yellow-painted nails digging into the expensive leather. There's a dark shape crouching just behind the front seat, perfectly still. Ellison moves slowly to the car, the fingers of his right hand curling into a fist as his left hand goes to the door handle. He's about to rip the door open when the shape turns to look at him through the window. He lets out a short breath and shakes his head, fingers uncurling.

"It's alright, Sam." She nods and they get in the car, driving away from the prison. Their extra passenger sits up once they're past the gates, dark hair framing his face and the ugly smile he tosses over his shoulder at the guards. "So, where ya headed, Ricky?"

"Alaska. I've got a score to settle."

Tyler is busy working on her tan when one of the dead townies comes running over to her, out of breath despite not needing to breathe. She waits patiently for him to recover, stretching out over the beach towel and luxuriating in the rare burst of sunshine.

"Gee-Jingles is back in camp," the man gasps out. Tyler sits upright so fast that her head spins, her black headband flying off into the sand. "Montana wants everyone to meet at the picnic table." She stands and grabs her headband before starting to run, following a familiar path to the right spot deep in the woods.

"Montana," she says, skidding to a stop just in front of the table. "Is it true? Is Jingles really here?"

"He's really here," Montana nods. Anger makes her glow, her brown eyes bright and aware. Time may slip through their fingers like sand, but grudges stick with them. "Tweedledum and Tweedledee are dragging him here as we speak." The other ghosts join them until the small clearing is packed, the other two townies dragging Jingles through the trees.

"You've gotten old." He's lost the greasy gray hair and the porn 'stache, still round and soft in the middle, still taller than most of the ghosts. He's still wearing that damn rain slicker, though, still got a keyring clipped to his belt that jingles every time he moves. Just the sound of keys clinking together makes her teeth ache, her dead heart gallop in her chest. "I can't wait to bury you."

"Why would you ever come back to this place? You _escaped_ , you were _free_." Montana scoffs and pulls Tyler with her over to the others. "You must be more deranged than we thought you were."

"He gave me no choice," Jingles says, a desperate whine. "You have to let me go so I can kill Richard Ramirez." Tyler draws in a sharp breath and glances around like Ricky could come bursting out of the trees at any moment. Could he really be alive? Did Satan revive him? _Fuck, what contract do I have to sign to get the same treatment_?

"You already killed him."

"He's made a deal with Satan and he's on his way here as we speak."

"Who gives a shit," Ray spits. "This motherfucker cut off my head and he needs to answer for that." He starts forward with a hatchet grasped in his hand but stops halfway there when Montana shouts his name. She looks downright pleasant when he looks at her, the switchblade glinting as she lets it sway gently back and forth.

"Do make me gut you again, Ray. You know it hurts like a bitch to heal from that." Ray clenches his jaw, but he takes a step back. Montana's grown vicious since she died, an incessant urge to spill blood over the rich soil of the campground.

"Wait, are you all ghosts," Jingles asks. He's managed to prop himself up on an elbow, but the old bedsheets tied around his arms, legs, and wrists make it difficult to stay up.

"How many fucking brain cells have you lost, man," Xavier asks disbelievingly. "You killed half of us here, remember? You locked in a goddamn _oven_. You and Margaret are both psychos and we got caught in the crossfire." Jingles sits up a little straighter, putting more strain on his elbow.

"What does being dead feel like?"

"It's not as bad as you'd think," Montana shrugs. "The first year was the toughest. There's this constant feeling of emptiness and longing, but that's pretty much how I felt when I was alive."

"Can you feel pain?"

"We feel everything we did when we were alive, dingus." Xavier stands up, towering over all of them from his spot on the bench. His hands going to his hips like he's about to sass Mister Jingles into a mass grave.

"I gotta tell ya, killing people is totally tubular," he says, jumping down to stand on Montana's right. "I understand why you took up the hobby. Really helps you work on your rage issues."

"It's even better since there are no consequences. I mean, what are the cops going to do? Arrest us?" Tyler laughs, a dry sound like dead leaves skittering over asphalt. They've all tried to leave, but none of them can make it past the welcoming sign.

"We're gonna kill every last motherfucker who comes here for Margaret's little fright fest."

"It's gonna be so rad," Tyler says, practically bouncing on her toes. "Imagine how much press those deaths will get this place. Two dead campers were enough to get on TV and in the newspaper."

"I'll bet we'll get a few psychics here if we kill enough people," Montana adds. "A whole festival's worth of dead losers, enough ghosts to fill every inch of this place. One of those psychics _has_ to know a way to get us the fuck out of here."

"Why would you want to leave," Jingles asks. "You're away from all the world's horrors."

"I fucking wish," Chet scoffs. "You think we're the only ghosts in these woods? Some crazy bitch in a white nightgown chases us down every time we get a little too close to her boundaries. We still have no clue why she hates us so much. Mostly, we just try to be inside by nightfall in case she comes through the camp."

"I know why she hates you, I even know who she is."

"Spill."

"The 1970 massacre wasn't the first one that happened here. There was another one that happened twenty years before. That must be when this blood curse began. This place used to be called Camp Golden Star, a little flower blooming in the wake of a war that took 400,000 souls, including my old man."

"Whoa, you're even older than I thought," Tyler murmurs. Jingles sends her a _go to hell_ look, but continues with his story all the same.

"My mom got a job here as the cook. I mean, the pay was shit and the work was hard, but my brother and I got in for free. She hated it. I remember that she was always so angry. She never looked at me with love like she did my brother, only a hateful resentment. One day, my brother and I went down to the lake for a swim. I was supposed to watch Bobby, but I wandered off and I…. I couldn't…." He takes a deep breath, tears clouding his eyes. "He was in the lake and got caught in a boat's rudder, he was dead by the time they pulled him out."

"Holy shit…."

"I wanted to go home, but my mother wouldn't leave. I didn't understand why she'd want to stay here where something so awful happened, not until _that night_. Screaming woke me up and I followed the sounds to a cabin not far from our own and then…. I saw my mom butchering the counselors, all of them."

"Why, though? What did they ever do to her?"

"She said it was for what happened to Bobby. If the counselor had been at the lake instead of having sex, Bobby never would have died. She tried to kill me, too, but she only got my leg." He wiggles the injured one for emphasis. "She dropped her knife and I got it before she could, then I- Then I stabbed her with it. She died in my arms. Camp Golden Star was shut down and Camp Redwood was opened ten years later. They changed the name, but they didn't erase the evil. Her blood poured into the ground with her pain and her rage, so maybe that's why you're all stuck here."

"Hold on," Montana says, holding up a hand. "You're telling me that we're stuck here and getting terrorized on a nightly basis because some old hag is holding a grudge? Those counselors she actually wants to gut aren't even here!"

"That's why she comes after you guys, I guess. Do you know where she is now?"

"Xavier will take you." Xavier looks offended at the suggestion, his brows furrowing before he gives them all a wicked smile.

"Send Chet instead," he says.

"Nope," Chet says," I'm never going back to that place. Being gutted once was enough for me to know that I don't want it to happen again." Xavier glances over at Tyler, but she pretends to be more interested in wiping sand off her tennis shoes.

"Fine, I'll take the idiot.


	8. Whatever It Takes

It's the day of the concert when Ellison comes walking along the beach, the olive drab Converse and black legs of his jeans speckled with damp sand. It's inevitable, the sand gets everywhere even if you're trying to avoid it. Tyler has given over to the elements, her purple dress riding high on her thighs and her kitten heels tossed to the wayside.

"Have you moved out here or something, Ty? I always find you in this spot." Tyler shrugs and looks around her at the stretch of blue water, the trees blurry shapes at the other end. She can't get to them any more than she can walk past the camp sign.

"It's quiet here," she says after a beat. "I can think." Ellison sits down beside her, ditching his shoes and the mismatched socks so he can dip his feet into the cold water. Most days the water is pleasant, but the October chill has crept in overnight and now it's a little too cold for comfort.

"Remember when we were kids and Uncle Jimmy took us to the pool? Mama would make lobster jokes and then shriek when Jimmy splashed her." Tyler coughs up a weak laugh, but there's no real sentiment in it. She's tired today, wants to curl up somewhere cool and damp, and daydream about the life she could be living if Margaret hadn't cut her throat. "Ty?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you wanna live again?" She perks up at that, glancing over at him with skepticism practically clinging to her like bad perfume. Ellison isn't joking, he's got a serious set to his jaw, a raw determination that usually precedes their neighbor's mailbox blowing up.

"Of course I do, but that doesn't mean I can."

"What if you could? Would you do whatever it takes?"

"Like what?" She's pretty much open for anything if it means a chance to live. Besides, nothing could be worse than dying or doing anal. She's done both and she doesn't recommend either one. Ellison shifts, brings his knees up to his chest.

"Sell your soul to Satan."

And, really, that's totally not worse than anal.

"What the fuck," she sighs, throwing her hands up. "I've done worse." Ellison pauses and cocks his head. "Xavier, Chet, and I had a threesome last night. It wasn't great." To put it plainly, it had been downright awkward. Next time she does something like that, it'll be with total strangers. Or never, never is good.

"I really didn't need to hear about my sister's sex life."

"I'm pretty sure it's my legal right to traumatize you, Ellis." He scoffs and stands up, leaving wet footprints on the dock as he strides away from her. She stands as well, grabbing his discarded shoes before joining him on the path that leads to the woods. "Where are we doin' this?"

"No fucking clue."

"There's no sacred spot?"

"Well, I sold my soul in a Waffle House bathroom."

"Jesus, Ellis, you could at least have been classy enough to do it in a McDonald's or something." He grins and ducks his head to hide it, not wanting to give her the satisfaction. To tell the truth, Tyler's missed that goofy smile of his. She doesn't get to see it as much now that she's, you know, dead. "Alright, I guess we can do it in the clearing."

"Why not the boathouse?" Tyler looks over at the boathouse, remembering the thick smell of blood, the vibrant smear of it around Rita's lips like a vulgar depiction of lipstick.

"Off limits." None of the ghosts have been brave enough to wander inside, not with the terrified nurse that cowers beneath a frayed tarp and screams when people draw too close. Even if Rita hadn't been in there, Tyler would have avoided it. "Come on, Ellis." She twines her pinky around his, tugging him after her.

"I saw Ricky a few days ago."

"Oh yeah? How's he doing?"

"Not too bad. Master broke him out of jail while people were distracted by that Brooke chick's execution. I think he'll swing by here to see Billy Idol's concert." Tyler hums, stepping off the path and winding through the trees. The clearing is deep in the woods, near the border, and Tyler's got the path memorized.

"He's swinging by to kill Jingles, actually."

"Jingles? You mean that old dude that killed some of your buddies?"

"The very same. He's lurking around here somewhere, plotting his revenge or something." She hasn't kept tabs on the man. There's no point in it when he'll be just as dead as everyone else once Ricky finds him. "How'd you come up with this sell-your-soul idea?"

"It worked for Ricky, and Anton vouched for it." Anton LaVey, their Black Pope, is a squirrely fella and she doesn't trust him as far as she can throw him. Mead and Sam are his best buddies, they hang on his every word, but Tyler could take him or leave him. Preferably the latter. "You sell your soul, the big guy brings you back, and you do whatever task he gives you as repayment."

"What if he asks me to kill you?"

"Then you kill me."

"As if." Ellison puffs his chest out a little, like he's proud his sister would disobey Lucifer himself if it meant keeping Ellison alive. The Falls family is a loyal group of assholes, they hold grudges longer than Pamela Voorhees.

They come to a stop at the picnic table, Ellison bringing out a pocket knife and carving deep grooves into the table. He works silently until it's done, the finished work being a pentagram inside of a circle. He cuts his palm and traces over the carving in his blood, whispering an incantation that turns his eyes pitch black. When he speaks again, his voice is a sonorous rumble that doesn't belong to him.

"Why do you call upon me, child?"

"To offer my soul, Master." The words spring to her mind and out of her mouth before she can contemplate them. Her voice is steady, unwavering despite the nerves coiling in her belly like snakes.

"What would you ask for?"

"I want to live again, Master. More than anything, I want to _live_." Ellison, _Satan_ , stands before her, his shadow growing long and monstrous in the dappled sunlight. On the table, Ellison's blood writhes and transforms into a crow, its feathers black with a rainbow of highlights, an oil spill hit by sunlight.

"Hold out your arm for my prince." Tyler holds her arm out for the crow to inspect, its beady eyes taking in all of her with a practiced gaze. It catches her eye and she doesn't back down at first, not until a hoarse voice echoes in her mind _do not forget yourself, child_. Her gaze drops to her bare feet and so the first strike of the crow's beak against her forearm comes as a shock. The crow pecks once more, seeming to taste her blood before it drops its head in a nod.

"Do we have a deal?" She doesn't draw her arm against her chest until Satan nods, a slow dip and rise of his head that's so unlike Ellison's usual movements. "What would you ask in return, Master?"

"One day a child will come into your care. Find her a safe family to foster her until my son is ready."

"Yes, Master." The sore on her arm grows hot, white lances of pain spreading through her arm until her blood forms a perfect pentagram, blood red with black crows, their wings extended in flight. "I'm to be a servant of Malphas?"

"He's always been fond of the stubborn ones. Your brother is his servant as well." Tyler cradles her sore arm against her chest, uncaring of the warm blood soaking into her dress, staining the lilac silk an ugly brown. "Listen for my call, child, and do as I bid."

"How old will I be when the child arrives?"

"You will not age as long as you remain faithful." Before Tyler can ask anything else, Lucifer slips out of Ellison and dissolves into the ground, a black mist that leaves behind the reek of sulfur. The black fades from Ellison's eyes until they're a normal brown again, fixing on where Malphas still rests on the table.

"Prince," Ellison greets, voice raw and rasping. The crow appears satisfied with whatever it sees, extending its wings and flying out of the camp. It soars high overhead, disappearing a moment later with one final caw. Ellison looks to Tyler, to the arm she's favoring, and gives a relieved sigh. "He took the deal."

"Yeah…." She doesn't feel any different, though. She still feels vague, not all there. Just as doubt starts to creep in, that searing pain floods through her body, fireworks of it crackling over her nerve endings. Tyler crumples to the ground, chest heaving and fingers curling into the hard soil. It's over as quickly as it had started, leaving her nails ragged and bloody, a pins-and-needles sensation prickling every inch of her now that blood is flowing again. "Holy fuck."

"Remind me not to die 'cause that looked like it hurt like a bitch." She has enough energy to flip him off, but not much more than that. "Let's get you out of here." She shakes her head, just lying there for a long while as she works to get control of herself again. She's been dead for nearly six years, so it's gonna take her a minute to get used to the feeling of life in her bones.

"I've got to say goodbye to the others before I leave."

"What if they try to kill you?"

"They won't." She stands with some help from her brother, legs stiff and uncooperative. It takes them a while to make it back to the main path, stopping in time to see Jingles tackle Ricky. Ricky has aged a little, but not much, mostly his hair just got longer. He glares up at Jingles, teeth painted red with blood, then his gaze flicks to Ellison and Tyler.

"You're looking better," he says, arching an impressed brow. "Got a little more life in your bones, huh?" Tyler nods, catching the annoyed glare Jingles is sending her.

"Don't let us interrupt your dick-measuring competition. We're just passing through." The fight continues as they pass by, the sound of grunts and punches followed by the squeal of tires. Tyler and Ellison don't look back even as Ricky starts to shout, making their way slowly through a camp now teeming with workers.

"Maybe we could stay for the concert," Ellison says, pulling at the collar of his sweater. It's a big thing, stopping at his thighs and fitting loosely. "I've always wanted to see Billy play." Tyler sighs and gives him a fond smile. "Please? As a wedding present?"

"Only because you're my favorite brother."

"I'm your only brother."

"You should be happy about there being less competition."

It's two hours closer to the music festival when there's a sudden tug in Tyler's chest, a familiar drawing sensation she'd felt when she was dead. She snaps her head around, eyes narrowed, and catches a flash of blonde hair between the pines.

"What is it?"

"We need to go to the clearing again," Tyler says, already standing.

"What, why?" She doesn't answer, doesn't know how to explain it all to her brother. She's alive now, but she died here and part of her has staked a claim. Or maybe the camp staked a claim on her. Either way, she needs to _move_. She jogs through the woods, her shoes in one hand and Ellison's wrist in the other, guiding him along a new path to the picnic table. When they finally make it, Jingles is suspended by his wrists and Xavier's yelling at him about being on the A-Team.

"Look, you're right," Jingles says, desperately struggling against the ropes. He's been suspended from a sturdy branch, a modern-day lynch mob standing in front of him, angry faces reflected in the lenses of his glasses. "I deserve everything you want to do to me and more, but I have to kill Ramirez first!"

"Why are you so stuck on Ricky," Tyler asks.

"Because he's going to kill my son if I don't! Bobby's innocent, he's just a baby! I need to kill Ramirez here so he can't leave!" Ellison lets out a laugh disguised as a cough, bringing a hand up to cover his smile. "What?"

"Everyone knows he doesn't kill little kids," Montana says.

"Maybe not when you knew him. He told me about how you brought him up here that night, how you seduced him to kill for you." Montana tenses at that, sending a nervous look in her friends' direction. She's already told Tyler about it, but Xavier's looking like a lost puppy. "You helped to make him."

"He was killing people before I ever met him, so don't lay that bullshit at my feet."

"Wait," Ray says, pointing at Montana with his hatchet. "You did it with the Night Stalker?"

"He wasn't the Night Stalker yet. It wasn't some big thing."

"Maybe not to you, but it was to him," Jingles corrects. "You were his inspiration, the match that lit the fire, and that fire became an inferno when he left this camp. He would kill anyone as long as they were innocent, age didn't matter to him anymore."

"It's not Montana's fault," Tyler says, stepping up beside her. "He was fucked in the head. All Montana did was screw him and then ask him to kill the bitch that got her brother killed. I would have done the same thing."

"You would have," Xavier asks. The lost puppy look is gone, replaced by something harder. "Even if it meant killing us?"

"None of us were killed by Ricky, dingus. Montana wouldn't have let him kill us."

"That's right," Montana nods. "You idiots are my family, you're stuck with me." She reaches out and brushes her hand over his arm, Xavier leaning into her touch. They all have an addictive nature and, since they can't get high anymore, they've become closer to each other. Never far apart, tangled up in red strings of Fate that draw them back to each other.

"That bond you all have," Jingles says, his voice raw with emotion," that intrinsic need to be near each other, that's how I feel about my son. I would give you all back what was taken from you if I had that power, but I don't. Please, don't let me fail my son."

"Group vote. All in favor of letting Jingles go say 'aye'." No one says a word, no one even looks guilty. What's the point of killing Ricky again when he's just going to come back and walk it off like it never happened? Baby Jingles is going to die either way. "All in favor of gutting him like a fish?"

"Aye," the group says in unison, creating an eerie, echoing effect. Montana looks back to Jingles, a tear running down her cheek. It doesn't even fuck up her mascara, another perk of being dead. You can't change your body type or the length of your hair, but you can get perfect makeup, perfect clothes with a simple wish.

"Take him to the docks where his brother died. Make it slow." Two of the townies and Xavier tie Jingles up to keep him from breaking free, carrying him out of the clearing once Ray lets him down from the tree. "I'm going for a walk."

"Want me to come with," Tyler asks.

"No, I wanna be alone for now." She strides away before Tyler can say anything else, keeping her back straight and her head up. Tyler watches her go, then turns to face the others.

"I need a cigarette." Ellison pulls a pack of Camels from his pocket, shaking one out for her to take. She'd rather have weed, but her brother doesn't get high for fear of their mother finding out. Avery Falls is a terrifying force despite being five feet nothing, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. "Come on, I wanna fuck with the dead musicians."

"Which ones," Chet asks.

"Kajagoogoo." He grunts and settles down at the picnic table, tracing a finger absently over the pentagram carved there. A black feather blows away on a light breeze, twirling once before fading away to ash. "You don't want to hunt them for sport?"

"I don't really feel like it. Might as well wait for everyone else to get here."

"Murder is like the Fourth of July, babe. You gotta light a few day works to keep yourself excited for the big shit later on." But Chet isn't in the mood, tilting his head back to look up at the blue sky barely visible between the trees. "You're so boring today."

"Not all of us can be perky all the time," Ray grumbles.

"You're never perky anymore, Ray." He rolls his eyes and storms off, the rest of the group following suit until only Chet and the Falls siblings remain. Tyler heaves a sigh and turns as well, wandering through the woods. Ellison hangs back, itching to talk with someone that actually knows something about sports.

She's not sure how long she's been walking when she feels a sudden stab of panic, a tug on one of those strings that pulls and yanks until she's at the edge of the property. A large tour bus has been parked sideways to keep traffic out of the camp and Trevor is lying in front of it, bleeding out.

"What the fuck," Tyler asks, surprised.

"Margaret fucking shot him," Montana yells. Her cheeks are wet with tears and she looks terrified, stomping her boots on the asphalt. "I can't let him die out there!" Tyler clenches her jaw and squares her shoulders, but fear drips coldly in her belly. What if she can't leave the camp? What if she's stuck here even in her second life? She sucks in a deep breath and takes a step forward, expecting to be snapped back to the camp like a rubber band. Instead, there's a pull of resistance and then she's through it. "How the fuck—"

"I'll tell you later," Tyler calls over her shoulder. She rushes forward and slips her arms under Trevor's armpits, dragging him toward the camp as fast as she can. It's still slow-going, Tyler's never been the strongest person and Trevor has at least thirty pounds on her. "Jesus, how much do you weigh?"

"Oh, fuck you, Ty," he sobs.

"I bet it's mostly your dick, huh? Coke's supposed to keep you skinny." She keeps rambling, trying to distract them all, but it's so damn hard. God, she should have called for Ellison to come with her, but she hadn't even thought of it.

"Get away from them, you bitch!" Tyler's head snaps up and she finds Brooke coming out of the bushes, still beautiful and completely alive. It can't be possible, but stranger things have happened in this hell hole. "You leave them alone!" Brooke comes to a stop a foot away, resting her hands on her hips as she watches Tyler try to shuffle backward.

"You know, being a nice person sucks sometimes," she sighs. "I'll get his feet." She bends down and grabs Trevor's ankles, hefting them up around her hips so she can switch her grasp to his calves. "Alright, let's go before he bleeds out." Without another word, she and Tyler start moving, faster now that Tyler's got some help. They make it onto the property just in time, Trevor going slack and his head falling against Tyler's shoulder. A faint, rattling breath washes over her cheek, sweet with the cloying scent of weed. They lay him down gently and Montana pulls him onto her lap like she needs to keep him safe.

"Why would you help us," Montana asks, gazing up at Brooke.

"Because I'm not an asshole like you are," she says, stalking away. Montana and Tyler are too shocked to say anything for a beat, then they're sharing a gaze and Tyler can see the question burning in her friend's eyes.

"How'd you get across the border?"

"Sold my soul to Satan," Tyler answers.

"Did it hurt?"

"Could'a been worse." She shrugs and holds out her arm for Montana to see the pentagram and the crows. "I got a free tattoo out of it." Montana hums and looks ready to ask more questions, but then there's a faint scuff of shoes behind them. Trevor stares down at his body with a confused wonderment, the face of a little kid learning that caterpillars turn into butterflies. "Nice to see you again, handsome."

"You, too," he says, quiet. His attention is on Montana, all that same wonderment intensifying into something Tyler's never seen before. It's like soulmates or something, a cosmic force keeping these two idiots together. Montana dumps his body on the road so she can jump up and pulling him in for a kiss.

"I'm just gonna make myself scarce. You two kids have fun." They don't even notice her leaving and she can't bite back a smile. She's happy Montana's got the love of her life, something other than killing to keep that sense of loss from becoming all-consuming.

"Wait!" She turns to look at the couple, still smiling. "Before you leave for good, we need to clean this place up." He looks down at Montana and they share a bloodthirsty smile. "We need to kill Margaret and her goons."

"That'd be a hell of a send-off."

It's easy to gather the other spirits and get them on-board, most of them had been killed by Margaret anyway. It only takes two of them to kill the new guy, some weirdo named Bruce that likes to kill women. Trevor gets him with a machete and kicks him over the property line to rot. Ricky is a different story, a whole other monster that's going to take constant guarding if Baby Jingles is going to survive.

Montana volunteers to lead him to the White Lady's cabin, a vacant space with a dirt floor, ivy wrapping around the building like it's trying to choke the life from it. The other spirits hang back while Ellison and Tyler hide behind an old desk, watching as Montana and Ricky come inside. They wait until Ricky's in the middle of the room to reveal themselves, Jonas (the roadkill formerly known as Greg) shutting and bolting the door.

"Oh, fuck me," Ricky grouses. They form a loose circle around him, ready to strike but patiently waiting for their turn. Montana called dibs and none of them are dumb enough to go against her. She moves fast, driving a knife through Ricky's back and hissing against his ear.

"This is my redemption, dickwad," she growls. "I'm gonna be the one to end you!" She takes the knife out, letting him drop to the filthy ground. "And guess what? Every time your master brings you back, one of us is going to be here to send you back to Hell."

"You're a bitch!"

"And you're a sick fuck that gets his rocks off killing grannies." Montana gives the signal and then they're all moving, driving their weapons into him until they're covered in gore and life has seeped out of him. The metallic scent fills the cabin, but Tyler finds herself able to tolerate it this time around.

"Ellison, you and Ray go take care of the power," Trevor orders. "Xavier and Chet will get the old wood chipper out and get it to the property line." The four of them nod and leave the cabin, everyone else turning to look at their newfound leaders.

"You guys are a total power couple," Tyler says. Montana giggles in spite of the blood painting her face and the whole front of her dress. "I hope my future spouse is a badass, too."

"They will be," Montana promises. "I won't let you settle for less."

It's dark by the time everything's set up for Margaret, the ghosts forming a mob outside the administration cabin. Tyler had died in there and she hasn't set foot in there since then, she doesn't plan on changing that.

"I found torches," Xavier says, practically skipping over to them. He passes them out and lights them before turning to face the cabin. "Margaret Booth," he sing-songs," olly olly oxen free!" The curtain twitches aside as Margaret looks out on them, her bulky cell phone tumbling out of her hand. "Let's move." They close in on the cabin, using the unlit ends of their torches to break windows, their fists to beat on the walls. There's a gunshot inside, but that doesn't deter them. Tyler and Ellison would just rise again if they're killed and the others are already dead. The door flies open and Chet and Trevor stride inside, fake Rita nodding for them to keep going. It's something of a shock to see her here again, but Tyler's not giving that particular horse a dental exam. The men wrestle Margaret out of the cabin, her pistol knocked out of her hand.

"What do you want," Margaret asks, panicked. "I can give you anything!" Xavier smiles down at her, a long-handled ax resting across his shoulders.

"We want your head on a stick."

"An ax isn't as grand as a guillotine," Ellison says calmly," but I reckon it's close enough for government work. I still get to see your head roll." The men drag her over to the wood chipper, Xavier moving to hold one of Margaret's wrists while Trevor starts the machine.

"Hold her steady, boys," he calls, grinning.

"You can't kill me here without turning me into one of you," Margaret says and the smugness in her voice has Tyler's blood boiling.

"Way ahead of you, Mags." He brings his machete down in two sharp swings, severing both of Margaret's arms just above the elbows. It's satisfying to watch her drop and writhe in the dirt, to see the chunks of her arms get blown over the property line. Her legs join her arms just a second later, Xavier and Chet severing them with four swings of an ax.

"You're too late, I'm already dying."

"The brain keeps kicking for thirty seconds after decapitation," Montana corrects. "And since you cut my best friend's throat, I think it's only fitting she gets to finish this." Tyler steps up, taking the machete from Trevor and hefting the weight of it. It's not so different from a baseball bat and she's always been able to hit the ball.

"Tell Lucifer I said hi," Tyler says with a wicked smile. She swings with as much strength as she can muster, cutting through muscle and bone with only a grunt of effort. She tosses the machete aside and smirks over at her brother. Margaret's torso goes through the chipper just fine, blowing out over the wire fence, but the wind picks up when her head goes through and blood splatters over the group.

"Oh, what the fuck," Trevor complains.

"Yeah, I'm gonna need a bubble bath." She holds her arms away from her, frowning down at the ruined silk of her dress. "Maybe two of them."


	9. Red Strings

**2002**

The marriage of Tyler Falls and Emma Kohl is held in the remains of Camp Redwood. It's a surprisingly informal ceremony, just enough traditional elements to keep LaVey and Mead satisfied. It's fall, the leaves are just starting to change colors, and Tyler's maid of honor is a dead woman.

"This is totally bitchin'," Montana gushes. "How'd you train all those crows to stay perfectly still in the trees?" Tyler follows her gaze to the line of crows, her eyes trained on one in particular. Malphas extends his wings and drops in a formal bow, showing his approval.

"A present from the master," Tyler says. "He and Malphas have a dramatic streak a mile wide."

"Well, tell them they're invited whenever Trevor and I tie the knot. I dunno when it's going to happen, but it will one day." Montana is determined about that much, but she's been flipping through magazines for thirteen years and she hasn't found the perfect ring yet.

"So, be honest, what do you think about Emma?" Montana's gaze flicks to Tyler's wife, taking in the white-blonde hair, the sensual curves and the wicked grin that appears at whatever Sam's said. There's approval in her face when Montana looks back at Tyler.

"I love her, Ty. You did great picking that one." They'd met at Wednesday mass back in the nineties and they've been inseparable ever since. Emma even used some of her contacts to bring electricity and internet to Camp Redwood, keeping all the ghosts up to date. Of course, that hasn't stopped Montana's crew from dressing like it's still the eighties.

"We're going to have our honeymoon here."

"Ugh, why?"

"Because I miss this place." She'd spent five years trapped here, but she can't shake the feeling like this is where she belongs. All those red strings she's tangled up in still pull at her. It's easier to be close, easier still to give in and stay for a week or two. "I miss you guys, too." She wraps an arm around Montana's waist, tugging her into a one-armed hug.

"You've got us, Ty. You always will." Tyler lets out a sigh when she feels another warm body pressing against her side. Emma smiles at her when her eyes flicker open, worming her way into the hug. Soon enough, the rest of their friends have found their way over until they're one giant group hug. "Feel smothered yet?"

"Never."

**2016**

Tyler Kohl is fifty-five years old (she doesn't look a day older than thirty, thanks very much) the day she meets her newest responsibility, a traumatized eight year old freshly arrived from North Carolina. The little girl has been scrubbed clean and put in fresh clothes, but her cheeks are hollow and her gray eyes shaded. Tyler's seen that expression before, all the ghosts trapped at Camp Redwood had that same haunted look when they first realized they were dead.

Tyler stubs out her cigarette and approaches the girl slowly, giving the poor kid a chance to get used to her presence. Sudden moves around traumatized kids is the best way to make them hate you. Tyler stops a foot away and puts on her best smile, the one that makes all her superiors melt.

"Hi, I'm Tyler. I'm gonna be your caseworker." The little girl says nothing, fingers absently running over her snake's smooth scales. It's wrapped around her left wrist, tight and secure and permeating a sense of foreboding. Tyler kneels in front of her, meeting her gaze. "I'm going to keep you safe, Taylor."

"You can't promise me that."

"I can and I will. We have the same master, dear." Tyler raises her sleeve to show the pentagram tattooed on the inside of her forearm, blood red with black crows soaring around the sharp points. "You'll never have to worry again." Taylor studies her for a long while before nodding, looking back to her snake.

"My cousin lives in LA."

"Yes, but he's not ready yet. Give it a couple of months and then I'll make sure you end up with him. Until then, I've found a home that will take care of you." Tyler leads the girl to her car, smiling a little when she feels Fate twining itself around her pinky, the red string leading to Taylor's heart. Yes, they were meant to know each other.

Five years later, Tyler is safely hidden away in an underground bunker while that traumatized little girl helps to destroy all life on Earth.

**Author's Note:**

> [Clothes](https://www.deviantart.com/thenewfiredancer/gallery/74368154/beautiful-summer-clothes)


End file.
